For You Alone
by Alethnya
Summary: 3 years, 2 months and 9 days ago, Sherlock Holmes told Molly Hooper that he loved her. 3 years, 2 months and 5 days ago, Molly Hooper boarded a plane and never looked back. Now, back in London, she finds herself face to face with her past…and it's everything she's ever feared it would be. Because she doesn't count. At least, not anymore. A Persuasion-ish AU, post-HLV.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Special thanks to my beta, Xaraphis. Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

She should have been prepared for this.

As she sat there, listening with carefully concealed horror to what the Dean of Pathology for Johns Hopkins University was proposing, all that Molly Hooper could think was that she should have _known_ that this would happen sooner or later. The past, in her experience, never did very well at staying where it bloody well belonged.

"I know this is short notice and I know how much you hate this kind of thing," Dean Jackson said, the sharpness of his tone softened by the harried expression on his face as he leaned toward her across his desk, "but as the Senior Researcher on the project, you're the obvious fill in for Vandemark. No one knows the work like you do, Hooper."

Molly stared down at the square of thick vellum in her hand – an invitation from The Royal College of Pathologists, no less – eyes tracing over the words spilled across its very expensive surface in a particularly fine calligraphic font. He was right, of course – little though she liked to admit it. She _was_ the all-too-obvious fill-in. If it weren't for the fact that Doctor Vandemark was brilliant at networking and fundraising, she would have been the departments _first_ choice as speaker.

In fact, as Senior Researcher, Dean Jackson had come to her as soon as he had received the invitation, asking for her input as to who they should send. She had been the one to immediately suggest Doctor Vandemark and the Dean had agreed, not even bothering to ask if she would have preferred to go instead. He – and everyone else in the Pathology Department – had known better.

Everyone knew that Doctor Molly Hooper far preferred the quiet confines of a well-equipped lab to the glittering opulence of a lavish gala, and attended them only when absolutely necessary. Unlike most of her colleagues, she was uninterested in the limelight and entirely uncomfortable with the concept of celebrity – even of the academic variety. She liked her quiet and she like her privacy, neither of which were terribly compatible with a life lived within the spotlight of fame.

Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyes caught and stuck to the single most disheartening word curled across the paper…

 _London_.

It would, of course, be London – the one place on the entire planet that Molly had never had any intention of setting foot in ever again. Three years ago, she had left it behind…along with a great many other things that she preferred not to think about.

 _Don't go._

The words whispered through her head, as rushed and stilted as they had been on a rain-soaked afternoon nearly three years prior. Steeling herself against them now, just as she had then, she lifted her head and met Dean Jackson's eyes.

"I'll need tomorrow to pack," she said, determinedly ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Dean Jackson smiled, relief written all over his face. "Of course! In fact, why not take the rest of today as well? Call it an extraordinarily inadequate thank-you."

Molly's return smile felt too tight on her face, her cheeks aching with the effort as she stood and shook his hand. She smiled as she collected her things, informing her co-researchers of her temporary departure; enduring their genuine excitement and sincere congratulations with increasingly miserable discomfort.

It wasn't until she was in her car, heading east toward Ellicott City on I-70 – toward _home_ , she told herself vehemently – that her smile faltered.

Memories – long banished – came creeping in along the edges of her mind. The doors of her past had been cracked open after years and years of disuse, and she suddenly found herself remembering things that she really would have preferred not to. Some were good. Some were not so good. And some…

Well.

Some she had never _really_ managed to forget in the first place…

 _He had taken her home once she was released from A &E._

 _The ordeal of the past few days had taken its toll – her two-day stay as Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran's hostage had left her bruised and broken in the most literal sense of the words. Luckily though, she had managed to keep just enough of her wits about her to catch them off guard. Moran, in particular, had failed to appreciate what she was capable of._

 _That John and Emily Watson had been able to escape because of it had been a bit of luck. Thankfully, Sherlock had found her fairly swiftly afterward – John's doing, no doubt – and very soon after that, Jim Moriarty had joined his Lieutenant in death._

 _For certain, this time. Mary Watson made very,_ very _sure of that._

' _Once again, Molly Hooper, I owe it all to you. Without you…' he stopped, swallowed hard, shifting nervously as he paced in front of her sofa, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the back of his neck. Suddenly, he stopped and spun toward where she was curled into the corner of the couch, a thick blanket wrapped around her. He was staring at her desperately, as if he feared she might disappear at any moment._

' _The past two days have been awful,' he admitted quietly, taking slow, measured steps toward her as he spoke. 'Without your courage, it could have been so much worse than that. If he had…" he stopped again, dropping now to his knees before her, reaching out a shaking hand to brush ever so gentle fingers across the violently purple and black bruise that covered nearly the entire left side of her face. 'I have long known that you mattered, Molly. But I never realized…that is…I never imagined that I could want…that I could_ need _…'_

 _He dropped his hand, collecting hers from her lap; his fingers found the thrumming pulse at her wrist, pressing against it almost reverently, his beautiful eyes sliding shut as he measured the beat of her heart._

 _She sat, frozen and confused – staring at him as if she had never seen him before. At the very least, she had never seen_ this _side of him before…and certainly not directed at her, of all people. Molly tried to sit up straighter, wincing at the ache of her carefully wrapped ribs. 'Sherlock…what do you need?'_

 _His eyes snapped open, a fire burning within the swirling blue-green that took her breath away._

' _You,' he said, just as he had, so long ago. But this time, he didn't stop there. 'I need_ you _, Molly – you are…you have become essential to me and I find that I…' A pause. He swallowed hard and ducked his head, strangely reticent suddenly. 'that I…love you. I know how that must sound to you – I know what I am. I know that I am not…good. But I want to be better. For you. Would you…perhaps…let me try?'_

She blinked against a faint burn of tears; fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel as she steeled herself against the siren song of remembrance. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to think about any of it…particularly about _him_. He had haunted her at first, the memory of him proving as impossible to ignore as the reality of him had always been and for several months, Sherlock had followed her _everywhere_.

The long, lean stretch of his shadow had lingered around every corner; the rolling timbre of his voice had filled every silence. He had been a vivid ghost, in those early days. A vivid, invasive, unrelenting remembrance of everything she had craved for so long…and everything that she had walked away from, in the end.

' _I am well aware of what he said, Doctor Hooper,' Mycroft drawled the words, the sympathetic look that accompanied them so patently false that it made her skin crawl. He cocked his head to the side above his steepled fingers, settled like a King on a throne in one of the Diogenes Club's plush arm chairs, a cup of tea and tray of sandwiches on the table beside him. 'My purpose here is to tell you what he_ _ **means**_ _.'_

 _He leaned forward then, uncrossing his legs and laying his arms imperiously along the armrests, his cold, blue eyes spearing her where she sat across from him. 'It is not love that my brother offers you, my dear…it is gratitude. You saved him. More importantly, you saved the Watsons. As such, he considers himself to be in your debt, and in his own, inimitable Sherlockian way, he has decided that the only way to repay you, is to give you what you want most in all the world,' he paused, offering her an icy smirk, even as he broke her heart, '…himself.'_

Molly tightened her grip on the steering wheel, swallowing against the bile that had begun to creep up her throat. Even now, after so long, those words cut deep. At the time, they had positively _gutted_ her; carved up her heart as nothing had ever done before. In less than five minutes, Mycroft Holmes had managed to accomplish what even Jim Moriarty's best efforts could not achieve.

He had driven her away.

Not with cruelty – though there had been an element of that to his speech. Nor with his scorn – though there had been more than enough of that as well. No…in the end, it had been the _sense_ in his words that broke her. The seemingly obvious _truth_ of them that sent her running.

Sherlock's declaration had been so sudden, so wholly unexpected, that it had been easy to believe Mycroft. Easier, in fact, than believing in the alternative. The elder Holmes had done little more than give voice to all the darkest whisperings of her own doubts and fears.

And it had worked. She ran farther and faster than she'd ever run before, grabbing onto the fresh start that had been offered to her with both hands. She'd buried herself inside the new life that Mycroft had arranged for her, thankful for his intervention and utterly convinced that she'd made the right choice.

Three years later, those effusive thanks had tempered…and she wasn't terribly certain of anything anymore.

Molly steered her car into the small garage that sat at the rear of her townhouse, emotionally exhausted and ecstatic to be home. Turning the engine off, she flopped herself back against the seat, head thumping against the headrest as she stared, unseeing, up at the roof of the car.

Regret, thick and suffocating, pressed in on her and she brought a hand up to rub at her chest, desperate to ease the ache that bloomed there. What if Mycroft had been right? What if it had been gratitude rather than love that had motivated Sherlock? Honestly…would that have been so bad? She knew for a fact that he had, at the very least, _cared_ about her, in his own very Sherlock way…and she had utterly adored him. Couldn't that have been enough?

In the end, wasn't a little bit of happiness better than none at all?

She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling sharply before letting out a long, trembling breath.

"Sherlock…"

His name rolled off her tongue, the shape of its syllables painfully familiar and tasting of a want that she _still_ had not managed to master. The face that went with the name swam behind her eyes, the ghostly tingle of those perfect lips brushing so, so softly against hers…

 _Molly…my Molly…_

Inhaling sharply, Molly's eyes flew open and she spent several long seconds taking long, slow breaths, combating tears that had begun to creep into the corners of her eyes. _Not the time_ , she told herself sharply; _really not the time._ Once she had mastered herself once more, she stepped out of her car and headed into the house, not stopping until she had shut the door of her room gently behind her.

"This is the final boarding call for passenger Margaret Hooper, booked on British Airways flight 228 to London. Please proceed to gate E1 immediately. The final checks are being completed and the captain will order for the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes time. I repeat – this is the final boarding call for passenger Margaret Hooper. Thank you."

Molly, cringing at the use of the first name she never used, lifted her glass from the bar top, gulping down the rest of her pint. She had officially delayed the inevitable as long as humanly possible. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a twenty and tossed it down on the bar, thumping her empty glass down beside it.

Bag slung over her shoulder, she hurried across the terminal to her gate. After a quick and not entirely pleasant exchange with the annoyed gentleman who scanned her boarding pass – she wasn't in any kind of mood for sarcasm, thank you very much – she stalked onto the plane, stowed her carry on and took her seat.

Too out of sorts to sleep, she spent the better part of the flight staring glumly at the progress tracker splashed across her in-flight entertainment screen. As she watched their tiny plane inch its way across the large, blue swath of pixelated ocean, counting off each mile that fell away beneath those little wings, the tension in her stomach began to coil tighter and tighter.

By the time they landed at Heathrow, she was thrumming with so much nervous energy that she thought she might be on the verge of a full on panic attack. So much so that she nearly plowed _over_ several of her fellow passengers as they strolled far too leisurely down the jetway toward the gate. A few minutes spent catching her breath in the first relatively quiet spot she had come to later, Molly was beginning to feel quite thoroughly annoyed with herself.

Yes, her personal life was an utter train wreck. Yes, she'd been the one to drive the sodding thing straight off the bloody tracks. But really…what had that to do with anything?

This was not a holiday. She was hardly going to be seeking out the people and places she'd left behind. This was, from start to finish, a _business_ trip. She would attend the conference, give her speech, shake a few hands...and when she was done with what was required of her, she would take herself straight back to Baltimore with a brand new feather perched high atop her professional cap.

Feeling slightly better – and vigorously ignoring the little voice in her head that scoffed at her for being horribly naïve – Molly collected her checked bag from baggage claim and then handed herself into a black cab. During the ride to the hotel, she stared determinedly out the window, taking in the sights of the city she loved and reminding herself of just how _big_ it actually was.

Over eight million people called London home…what were the odds of running into one particular person in a crowd _that_ big? It was ridiculous to worry herself sick over the extraordinarily slim possibility that she would run into him. Ridiculous to even imagine what it might be like…

"Here we are, ma'am…Grosvenor House."

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Molly forced a smile for the grinning cabbie, passing him her fare and then offering that same, strained grin to the uniformed porter waiting patiently for her to step out of the cab. Later, once she was settled into her room, she came to the very firm decision that she was no longer going to allow her past to inform her future.

With a handful of empty hours before the welcome reception scheduled for that evening, Molly dropped herself onto the bed after switching on the telly. Back against the headboard and bare feet crossed at the ankle, she flicked aimlessly from one channel to the next, all the while telling herself with utmost certainty that she was laying the past to rest. That she was finally ready to get on with her…

" _There was quite the scene today as famous – and some would say infamous – detective, Sherlock Holmes was caught on video pursuing a suspected arsonist through the streets of Mayfair. Holmes, accompanied, as ever, by his associate – Dr. John Watson…"_

The remote dropped from Molly's suddenly nerveless fingers – hitting her hard on the hip before rolling off and falling to the carpet with a muted thump. Heart in her throat and feeling very much like she'd just been punched in the gut, she leapt up from the bed. Lunging at the telly, she mashed the power button on the side of it so hard that the entire thing scooted sideways.

Breathing hard into the silence that had fallen when the screen went dark, Molly just stood there, frozen in place and feeling very much like she wanted to cry.

She still loved him. Of _course_ she still loved him. Despite the time apart…despite the distance she had put between them…Sherlock Holmes was still everything that she had ever wanted. Everything that she _still_ wanted.

And everything that she would never have again.

Three years ago, she had walked away from him – from _them_ – because she had been too much of a bloody _coward_ to even try to see what might have come of it; to see if the gratitude he felt might have eventually become something _more_. Instead, she had broken his trust, betrayed his friendship…and Sherlock Holmes, she knew for a fact, was not a forgiving man.

Yes, in doing what she'd done, she had well and truly made her bed. What choice did she have now but to lie in it?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much to all who read/reviewed/followed/favorited the first chapter! I hope you enjoy the second one as well!

Thanks, as always, to my beta - Xaraphis. She has some stellar Sherlolly fics in progress herself and you should definitely give her a look!

* * *

She had gotten better, over the years, at dressing herself for formal occasions.

In her position at Bart's, there had been several levels of hierarchy between her and any requisite formal events – a situation she had been more than happy with. In her role as a Senior Research Fellow at John's Hopkins, such quiet anonymity just wasn't plausible, no matter how much she wished it could be. In the world of academia, the acquisition of funding was just as important as the resultant research that it allowed, and she had been forced to learn very quickly how best to _sell_ herself, her colleagues and their collective work.

As much as she loved truly garish jumpers and overlarge hair-bows, they simply were not the stuff that professional images were made of…and image was an essential ingredient to successfully talking a millionaire out of his money.

Stepping into her strappy, black heels, Molly ran her hands down the front of her simple, yet elegant, black gown, brushing away a few stray cat hairs that had made the trip to London with her. Satisfied with that, she turned toward the full length mirror that hung on the wall near the loo; her eyes passing quickly over the sleek lines of the silent television.

She hadn't turned it back on again after that bit of unfortunate timing earlier and she certainly wasn't going to allow herself to dwell on it now. As with everything else, those very inconvenient emotions bubbling just beneath the surface of her self-control were just going to have to wait their turn because right now, she had a formal reception to attend, a roomful of very important people to impress, and she couldn't very well do that if she was a sobbing mess, now could she?

Turning herself first one way and then the other in front of the mirror, she gave herself a last once over – patting at the tuck of her French twist and smoothing down a few wayward fly-away's. Finally satisfied, Molly sucked in a deep breath and then let it out in a wretched huff. Leaning in towards her reflection, she gave a short, sharp nod. "Right then, my girl," she chirped, sounding far cheerier than she felt, "let's get this over with, shall we?"

With one, last sigh, she turned away from the mirror and headed for the door, steeling herself for the evening to come.

Molly Hooper, above all, was an inherently sensible woman. She was also – despite her habitually whimsical façade – a rather unabashed realist.

As such, she had fully anticipated that there would be at least a few familiar faces amongst the glittering crowd of medical elite in attendance. She had already greeted and small-talked her way through several miserable re-introductions; forcing herself to mingle and _network_ rather than slinking about the edges of the room as she would have preferred.

But for all her logic and all of her realism, she never would have expected to see a face as painfully familiar as Mary Watson's amongst the crowd.

For a long moment, she simply stared; a square of Manchego frozen half-way to her lips as she watched one of the more vibrant ghosts of her past take a sip of champagne. It occurred to her that she should move away – that standing there, staring like an idiot, was hardly the way to keep herself from being seen – but she simply couldn't make her legs move.

Stuck there, anxiety coiling tight in her chest, all Molly could do was squeeze her eyes shut and pray that, by some miracle, the most extraordinarily observant woman she had ever known would simply…not notice her.

 _Please don't look this way. Please don't see me._

She opened her eyes…and nearly dropped both the cheese in her right hand and the glass of Riesling in her left.

Mary had _more_ than simply noticed. Indeed, the hawk-eyed, elegantly appointed blonde was now making a beeline straight toward her – slinking her way through the crowd with enviable ease.

Molly, not knowing what else to do, lifted her wine glass and drained it in one go; desperate for what meager courage the suddenly sour-tasting vintage could afford. She'd been prepared for this trip to go very badly – she just hadn't imagined that it would go so utterly to shit so very quickly.

Really, she should have known her own luck far better than that.

"Molly Hooper."

Mary's voice was sharp, firing her name off like an opening salvo and Molly felt her stomach drop accordingly. She lowered her glass, nearly choking on the last bit of her wine and met the other woman's eyes, her entire body tingling with mounting dread. "Hello, Ma…Mrs. Watson."

Eyes narrowing a tic, Mary tipped her head to the side, too-blue eyes studying Molly in a way that made her skin itch. She had forgotten, in her time away, just how intimidating the slightly older woman could be.

"That's a bit formal, don't you think?"

Molly swallowed, her tongue feeling like cotton wool in her mouth. "I just…" she stopped, gave a small, twitching shrug, "I wasn't…I didn't want to assume…"

Somehow, in that pathetic, stuttering mess, Mary found…whatever she had been looking for. The searching look disappeared, swept away by a softness that conversely left Molly feeling even worse than before.

Mary stepped in toward her, a gentle smile on her lips and an entirely different sort of intensity in her gaze. "Molly…you killed Sebastian Moran rather than let him lay a finger on my family and nearly got yourself killed holding off Jim Moriarty until help arrived. If anyone's earned the right to call me Mary, I'd say it's you, luv."

The sentiment was appreciated – the reminder was not. She had done what was necessary in a horrific situation and she would never be sorry for it, but that didn't mean she liked to think about it. In fact, she had long made a point of thinking about it as little as possible.

Molly dropped her gaze, swallowing hard as unwelcome memories began to swim behind her eyes. "Right. Yes…well…," she glanced back up, attempting a smile, "thank you…Mary." She brought her wine glass back to her lips, upending it with a sharp flick of her wrist and frowning when she found it empty.

From beside her came an entirely unladylike snort of amusement. "I'm afraid that one's not going to do you much good." A moment later, the empty glass was plucked from her fingers and replaced with the half-full glass of champagne that she had seen Mary sipping earlier. "There now…start with that. If you need more, I know where to find it."

It was a testament to just how flustered she was that Molly didn't even hesitate – she downed the champagne in one go.

"There's a girl." Mary relieved her of the champagne flute, turning and setting it down beside the equally empty wine glass on the lip of a nearby planter. She turned back to Molly with a single brow arched over an annoyingly knowing smirk. "Feeling better?"

"Oh, loads," Molly lied, though the smile that bent her lips was the most honest one she'd worn in days. "It's good to see you, Mary."

Those bright blue eyes sparkled. "Hmm. I'd forgotten just how cool a liar you are, Miss Hooper." She reached out and snagged two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, offering one to Molly with a flourish. "It is still _Miss Hooper_ , isn't it?"

Molly – who had wisely decided to _sip_ this glass – frowned. "Yes, it's still Miss Hooper," she said sharply. She disliked discussing her personal life at the best of times…and this was far from that…

Mary, on the other hand, appeared to have no such qualms. "A boyfriend, then? It's been what – three years? Surely you've got one of those, at the very least?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Molly could feel the flare of a blush burn across her cheeks. "I don't really see what that..."

"There you are, Mary!"

Molly's mouth snapped shut, anything she'd been about to say lost as her eyes fell on the familiar – if ever so slightly grayer – figure of John Watson. He hadn't seen her yet, all of his attention reserved for his wife.

"I turn away for two minutes and you wander off on me – honestly, woman, you're as bad as…"

"John, darling," Mary cut in, collecting her husband's arm and turning him sharply around, "look who I've found."

She could see it, the second that recognition flared behind his gaze. Could see it…and watched as that recognition cooled into something remarkably like disapproval, only sharper. Was it anger?

Either way, it made Molly extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"Hello, John," she said, her voice gone high with tension.

"Molly." He said her name flatly, the smile on his face gone utterly false. "How lovely to see you, after allthis time…and without a word to anyone…"

Blinking rapidly – oh, but she _knew_ that tone and it was _definitely_ anger – Molly felt her stomach knot up all over again. "Yes…well…it was a last minute trip," she defended, though it was a half-hearted effort at best. "My colleague was set to speak tomorrow, but he came down ill and I was chosen to…to take his place."

"…though I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, all things considered," he continued, talking right over her as if she hadn't said a word, that flat blue gaze locked on hers.

"John," Mary hissed, "that's enough."

"Is it?" He smiled wider, his eyes gone absolutely piercing. "Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?"

Molly thought she might be sick, right there in the middle of the ballroom. "Excuse me," she choked, spinning away and pushing her way through the crowd.

 _Do not cry_ , she ordered herself, pasting a smile on her face as she made her way toward the relative safety of the ladies restroom. _You can go to pieces later, but right now…do not cry!_

Slipping into a stall, she dropped herself down onto the closed toilet lid, only just realizing that she'd brought her still mostly full champagne flute with her. Grimacing – she certainly wasn't going to drink it _now_ – she set it down atop the toilet roll dispenser, before dropping her elbows to rest on her knees. For several moments, she just sat there, breathing deep and fighting against the still insistent urge to cry.

John Watson hated her. It had been there, plain as anything, in his face. She understood it – _God_ , did she understand it – but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. She and John had been…well, they'd been friendly for years, but it was in those last months that they truly became _friends_.

It had started because of Sherlock, of course – because for John Watson and Molly Hooper, most everything _did_. In the end though, they'd become friends in their own right, independent of their shared concern for the increasingly frustrating consulting detective. Over the years since she had left, Molly had wondered if that friendship could possibly have survived her…hasty relocation. On good days, she'd thought maybe he might understand. On bad days…

Well. She needn't wonder anymore.

Barely twelve hours in and already this trip was shaping up to be one giant exercise in the concept of 'worst case scenario'…

"I can do this," she muttered to herself, eyes closed and head nodding. "I can…I can do this."

She repeated those words like a mantra, gathering herself as best she could and by the time she pulled open the door of the ladies room, she was wearing a smile once again. She had a job to do, she reminded herself as she inserted herself back into the crowd. There would be plenty of time for her personal disasters later. But for right now…

 _I can do this_ , she told herself firmly as she turned the corner to return to the ballroom proper. _I can absolutely…_

She stopped short. Mind…body… _heart_ …every single part of her froze up tight at the sight that awaited her just around that last, fateful corner.

Because there stood John…and Mary…and beside them…

"Sherlock…"

His name fell past her lips, a broken whisper of a sound. He stood stiffly, proud chin held high and elegant fingers clasped together behind his back. If she'd had an ounce of sense, she'd have turned away immediately. But she was Molly Hooper, and when it came to Sherlock Holmes, she'd never possessed even a single shred of sense. So she just stood there… _looking_. She looked and she looked; her eyes devouring every line and angle and curve of him like a woman starved.

The same. He looked exactly and _utterly_ the same; from the toes of his polished designer shoes to the tips of his artfully messy curls, he was still the most painfully beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon.

His expression though – so calm; so stoic – _that_ was a change. In those last months, he had been a whirlwind; always moving, always thinking. And the last time she had seen him…well…

' _What happened?' he demanded, the stiff, rasped words stopping her just as she reached the door. 'You were…you were_ _ **happy**_ _yesterday. What has changed?'_

 _Eyes closing on tears, she shook her head, refusing to turn around – she couldn't look at him; not now. 'It's not…there isn't…'_

' _Don't lie to me,' he snapped, cutting her off._

 _She bit her lip, nearly choking on her own misery and having absolutely no idea what she could possibly say. Eyes still closed, she dropped her head, feeling the warm slide of a single escaped tear as it slid over the curve of her cheek._

' _Please, Molly,' his voice cracked as he stepped up behind her; his long, elegant fingers hesitantly grasping at hers where they hung at her sides, 'please…tell me what I did wrong?'_

Molly's heart clenched; a wave of guilt so fresh that it may as well have been brand new swamping her.

Yes, in his inexperience, he might very well have confused gratitude with love. No, he might not have meant the things he'd said in precisely the way she'd hoped that he meant them. But they had been _friends._

They had been _more_ than friends, and she had abandoned him; running away without ever bothering to stop and tell him _why_.

And now here she was again…and there he was again…and she had apparently learned absolutely nothing, because all she wanted to do was run away all over again…

Something of that thought must have transferred to action – some tiny, near infinitesimal flinch or shift – because quite suddenly, Sherlock's head snapped up. His gaze hit her with the force of a battering ram and she felt herself sway on her feet as one trembling hand reached out to press against the wall beside her for support. Lost – to his eyes; to her own chaotic emotions – she could only stand there, staring.

The world around her faded, the sounds of the reception fading into the background until there was nothing left but Sherlock and the gallop of her own thundering heart. Overwhelmed and utterly terrified, she managed to take one, tiny step forward, her lips parting around the first syllable of his name…

He looked away, eyes dropping from hers to meet John's and then Mary's in turn. He said something and then his eyes were on hers yet again, only this time, they _skewered_ her in place. After a long, suspended moment, he gave a single nod – a simple acknowledgment, bare and impersonal – before turning sharply on his heel and stalking away.

Molly leaned heavier on the wall beside her, staring at his retreating back with a mounting sense of mingled misery...and resignation.

Vaguely, she realized that Mary was at her elbow and that she was talking to her, but Molly couldn't tear her eyes away from the black-clad back still moving resolutely away from her through the crowd.

She had spent the past three years wondering, in her darkest moments, if Sherlock could ever forgive her rashness…her utter _betrayal_ of his hard bestowed trust…

Well.

She had her answer now…and as with everything else about her return to London so far, it was as bad as she'd always feared it would be.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** As always, an enormous thank you to all who read/reviewed/followed/favorited! And thanks, as ever, to my beta - Xaraphis.

* * *

The next morning dawned in stereotypical London fashion – cold and gray and damp.

Far from being put off by the weather, it pulled at Molly's heart; the familiarity of the winter landscape bringing a lump to her throat as she stared down on it from the window of her hotel room. Homesickness, her near constant companion for so long, came roaring back, knotting up her insides even worse than they already were. Taking a sip from the fresh cup of coffee pressed between her palms, she watched with envious eyes as people below scurried about, living their lives – a great many of them, no doubt, with far more success than she was managing at the moment.

Here she stood, on the precipice of a truly outstanding professional triumph, and all she could think about was Sherlock's broad back and tightly squared shoulders as he walked away from her. Not, in itself, unusual – he was in her thoughts far more often than she admitted, even to herself – but it was the content of those thoughts that had changed irrevocably. After last night, there was nothing left to speculate; no question left unanswered. She now knew _exactly_ what his response would be if he ever saw her again…and quite frankly, she had far preferred her guilty daydreams to the cruel reality of his chilly regard and swift withdrawal.

She had stared after him miserably, heart in her throat and wretchedness apparently written all over her face.

At least, Mary had seemed to think so. John too, though he'd been considerably more reserved in his attempts to comfort her in the wake of Sherlock's departure. His narrow-eyed look – part confusion, part consideration – had stuck with her long after she'd made her own retreat.

Luckily, Molly had plenty of experience with compartmentalizing emotional distress…particularly emotional distress related to Sherlock Holmes. She had managed to salvage the rest of the evening after disentangling herself from the Watsons – she suspected she'd been a bit rude in doing so, but then, _she_ hadn't been the one to approach them, had she? After spending two interminable hours mingling and _networking_ with as much aplomb as she was physically capable of achieving, she had finally slipped away to her room, her head throbbing nearly as painfully as her heart.

Hopefully, she'd done a decent enough job of it. If she hadn't, well…that was just too bad. Dean Jackson had known, at least to a certain extent, that there had been more behind her move to the States than just a job opportunity. If he didn't like the results she got him, then he could bloody well send _himself_ to London next time round.

Setting her now empty cup of coffee aside, Molly sucked in a deep breath and scrubbed her hands over her face tiredly, letting out a long, unhappy sigh. She would have loved nothing more than to throw all of her things back into her suitcase and head straight for the airport, speeches and homesickness and professional advancement be damned. But she knew herself well enough to know that she would never do that. The potential investment dollars that hinged on this speech would affect far more than just her own personal research – if she made their work look good enough, it was to the benefit of her entire team.

And she simply could not bring herself to disappoint her colleagues over a bit of personal drama.

Looking up, Molly met her own eyes in the mirror, pulling a face of strained resignation. "It can't get any worse than it already is," she muttered, shaking her head at herself. "So just suck it up, yeah? Just…suck it up."

 _Stiff upper lip, my girl_ , as her father would have said.

The lines of strain around her eyes and mouth pulled even tighter. "Oh yes, brilliant," she huffed, rolling her eyes in disgust, "think about Dad. That's sure to cheer you up."

Deciding that her own traitorous thoughts were by far her worst enemy at the moment, Molly turned her back on both the mirror and the window and headed for the shower. She still had a few hours before her address, plenty of time to get herself ready and then take herself and her notes down to one of the hotel restaurants. She wasn't hungry, but right now, she needed the distraction of a crowd.

There would be time enough to eat her heart out once she was home again, tucked safely away in her little townhouse. Alone.

As always.

For all her rather marked social anxieties, Molly Hooper had always been surprisingly good at public speaking. She didn't enjoy it, by any means, but she had always been able to deliver a speech to a crowd with far more dignity and far less stuttering than she ever managed when talking one-on-one. Thus, the half-hour presentation on Immunocytochemistry and Molecular Morphology went off without a hitch. Even the short Q&A session afterwards went smoothly, though she had felt her palms start to sweat as soon as the first question had been lobbed her way.

By the time it was all over and she took her final bows to a healthy round of applause, she was thrilled to be able to leave the temporary spotlight behind her, her mind already far ahead of her and safely ensconced back behind her favorite microscope.

 _One more day_ , she told herself. _One more day and then you'll never, ever have to set foot in London again._

She pretended that thought didn't hurt.

"Doctor Hooper?"

That voice – _Sherlock's voice_ – pulled her up short; so much so that she very nearly tripped over her own two feet as she lurched to a shuddering halt. Staring straight ahead, heart hammering so hard that she could barely hear over the roaring thud of it in her ears, Molly bit back on the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh.

 _And you thought it couldn't get any worse…_

"Doctor Hooper?"

The first articulation of her name had been coolly civil…the second was sharper, almost impatient. Molly blinked, recognizing that she needed to turn around but wishing that she didn't have to. Hadn't he said everything that needed saying last night? She had certainly gotten the message.

 _You walked away and left him without a word as to why you were doing it. If he has something to say to you about it now, the least you can do is turn around and let him. You owe him that much at the very least._

Taking a deep breath, attempting to calm her flailing nerves, Molly turned around…

It had been staggering last night, seeing him again from across the room. Now, with less than two feet of space between them, she found that she couldn't breathe properly, overwhelmed, as ever, by his sheer _presence_. He stood there, towering over her in every imaginable way and she was hit with a wave of longing so sharp and so consuming that it nearly choked her.

He was a force of nature, even in his stillness – the unstoppable force _and_ the immovable object, all in one hauntingly beautiful and tantalizingly flawed package. The maddest, most brilliant, most infuriating man she had ever known.

She had loved him for years without any hope of his even _liking_ her in return. She had loved him when she didn't want to; when she was trying so hard to move on that she'd very nearly made the mistake of ruining a perfectly lovely man's life. She had loved him when he finally – _finally!_ – declared that he loved her back and she had loved him even as she had run away from him.

Now, three years and immeasurable heartache later, she loved him still…and as she stood there in front of him, facing the biggest regret she would _ever_ have in her entire life, Molly Hooper knew, without question, that she always would.

And more fool her…

"Mister…Holmes. Um…hello? I mean…yes… _hello_. Can I…did you need…something?"

Tongue-tied as she hadn't been since the earliest days of their acquaintance – _no one_ possessed the power to throw her quite like he did – Molly forced herself to keep her eyes on his. Bad enough she'd just tripped all over herself like the sad, pathetic idiot that she had tried very hard _not_ to be for years now; she refused to cower in front of him into the bargain.

For his part, Sherlock merely arched a brow at her, as supremely unimpressed as she'd ever seen him. " _I_ need nothing from you," he said flatly, though she could have sworn that his expression darkened ever so slightly. "Rather, there is someone I would very much like to introduce you to."

He turned then, gesturing for someone to step forward.

"Doctor Hooper, this is Doctor Louis Musgrove – the _new_ pathologist at Bart's."

She caught the accentuation of the word 'new', just as she knew he had intended her to. Molly turned her head, forcing herself to look away from Sherlock, her eyes falling on a young man of middling height with a shock of bright, blonde hair. She knew of him – for all that she'd left London behind her, she had exchanged an occasional e-mail with Mike Stamford. He'd mentioned her replacement once or twice over the years, much to her misery.

Invariably, any mention of the fresh-faced Dr. Musgrove had been accompanied by a rant about how utterly unreasonable Sherlock was being…which was a large part of the reason why Molly had just started completely skipping over any mention of either after the first few months.

Even as she began to replay some of those e-mails in her head, Dr. Musgrove took a step toward her, a look of frustrated apology on his face as he extended his right hand to her. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Hooper. When I asked Sherlock to introduce us, I didn't expect…"

"Never mind that," Molly said quickly, thrusting her own hand out to meet his in a proper, introductory shake…and utterly forgetting that she was holding the notecards from her speech in her right hand. Their hands collided, sending the entire stack tumbling to the floor alongside what little poise Molly had left. Staring down at the mess for a long moment, she gathered herself together, refusing to give in to the mortification that she knew was written all over her face in various shades of pink and red.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up again and tried to smile. "Never mind that, as well, would you?" she said with far more confidence than she felt. She stuck her hand out once more, shaking the younger man's still outstretched one and ignoring the embarrassment plastered across his own face – no doubt due to her clumsiness.

"It's an honor to meet you, Doctor Musgrove."

"Really, Doctor Hooper, the honor is all mine." Cobalt blue eyes – so very different from the lighter, more vivid ones staring down from an even greater height beside him – lit up as he shook her hand with the sort of youthful exuberance that she hadn't felt in years. "I specialized in cytopathology myself and I have to say, I've been following your work at Johns Hopkins with great interest. Your last article on the utilization of fine needle aspiration in the diagnosis of leprosy was absolutely fascinating."

"Thank yo…"

"Yes," Sherlock cut in, drawing both her attention as well as Musgrove's, "it was a well done article, I suppose. Though, as usual, Doctor Hooper, your conclusion was somewhat… _lacking_. Musgrove, on the other hand, has written a _truly_ brilliant article on the diagnostic value of laser capture microdissection that has been accepted for publication by the British Journal of Cytopathology. His lab skills are unparalleled and his autopsy technique is beyond reproach…as is his ability to string more than two words together without stuttering." His chin came up, his eyes looking at a point just beyond Molly herself – refusing now, to meet her eyes.

"That's enough, Holmes," Musgrove hissed, shooting a glare at the taller man.

"What?" Sherlock said, with the same viciously uncaring confidence that he'd used to eviscerate her so many times before. "I merely wished to assure Doctor Hooper that the void she left behind her has been filled not just adequately, but amply." He turned to Molly then, his eyes meeting hers squarely, a look of utter distaste on his face. "Bart's, you see, has carried on just fine without you, Doctor Hooper."

With that, he whipped around, stalking away from them and disappearing back out into the ballroom.

Molly didn't watch him go, having heard the unspoken ' _and so have I'_ as clearly as if he had actually said it. Ducking her head, she shut her eyes against the burn of tears. It had been another of those moments – those awful, flaying moments, just like Christmas at Baker Street all those years ago – when Sherlock Holmes had made a concerted effort to wound her. The difference was that this time, she knew very well that there would be no apology forthcoming.

"I'm… _Christ_ …I'm _so_ sorry, Doctor Hooper," Doctor Musgrove muttered, clearly embarrassed on her behalf. "If I'd known Holmes would act like this, I never would have…"

"Please," she said, her voice high and tremulous. "Please, just…don't. This isn't your fault. It's…it's my fault."

"I don't see…"

" _Please_ ," she begged, desperate to just…run away. "It was a pleasure to meet you," she said, offering her replacement a watery smile. "I'm…I'm so glad to hear that my old lab has been put into such…such worthy and capable hands."

Then, she was walking, moving away from Doctor Louis Musgrove and leaving the last, lingering shreds of her dignity scattered all over the floor along with her abandoned notecards.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favorited! So glad you're all enjoying! A big thank you to my beta, Xaraphis.

* * *

The rest of the weekend went by in something of a blur to Molly.

She attended talks, shook countless hands and smiled her way through the closing reception, politely declining several invitations to dinner and drinks for that night. She had even seen Louis Musgrave hovering at the edges of several of her conversations, looking very much like he had wanted to speak to her, though he never did.

Once she had finally closed the door of her hotel room behind her late on Sunday afternoon, she had no intention of stepping back out of it until it was time to head back to Heathrow. Sunday evening, she spent buried beneath the plush duvet – nursing her way through an exorbitantly priced bottle of Malbec that she'd ordered from room service and watching movies on the in-room entertainment system.

If the Royal College of Pathologists had a problem with that, they could bloody well send her a bill.

What she consciously did _not_ do, was think about that unfortunate exchange with Sherlock. There was no point, was there? Whether or not he had loved her then no longer mattered in the slightest, because he certainly didn't love her now.

She couldn't even blame it on Mycroft – he had made valid points. It had been her decision – made in a panic and deeply flawed – to take those valid points and run all the way across the Atlantic with them without ever giving herself time to stop and think.

No, the blame was hers. The _regret_ was hers.

And now, it was up to her to try to put all of it behind her, once and for all.

Sad and tired from a miserable, restless night, Molly woke up early Monday morning ready to leave London for the last time – she would never be coming back again; not after the disaster of this trip. Her flight wasn't scheduled to leave until the evening, but she planned to get to Heathrow as soon as possible and attempt to get herself switched to an earlier flight.

As she was putting the last few pieces of clothing into her suitcase, her mobile rang. Stomach tumbling sickeningly, Molly stopped what she was doing and turned to look down at it where it was laying on the bedside table, dreading to see who might be calling so early…

Dean Jackson.

She blew out a breath of sheer relief, reaching over to retrieve the phone and then bringing it to her ear. "Good morning, Dean Jackson," she said politely, then frowned, doing the math in her head, "or very late night for you, I suppose."

"Ugh, don't remind me. I'm heading to bed as soon as we get off the phone, but I've been waiting for it to be a decent hour your time. First and foremost though…how are you, Hooper? Doing well, I assume."

She pulled a face, but kept her real response to herself. "Of course! The talk on Saturday went well, as did everything else. Nothing left now but the packing…"

"Well if that's what you're doing, you can stop right now," he cut in, sounding oddly happy.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to stop packing and start congratulating yourself, Hooper. I got a phone call from Dr. Julia Williams, the Clinical Head of Diagnostic Service for University College Hospital."

Mind slipping back to Saturday, Molly recalled a very distinguished looking woman of around 50, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit who had introduced herself with that name. She tightened her grip on both the phone in her right hand and the neatly folded blouse in her left, a welcome buzz of excitement chasing some of her bad mood away. "Did you really? That's lovely to hear – I met her very briefly after I was finished on Saturday and she was quite complimentary."

"Oh, she was indeed. In fact, she was more than just complimentary, Hooper – she was impressed. Told me so in no uncertain terms!"

Spirits well and truly lifted, Molly smiled into the phone, glad beyond belief to know that _something_ positive had come out of this trip after all. "That's…that's lovely to hear! I'm happy to know I did our work justice!"

"You did better than that," Dean Jackson said, very obviously beside himself with satisfaction. "Dr. Williams informed me that she's hosting a symposium this Friday for University College's Path department. Their keynote speaker dropped out last week and get this – she wants you to take his place! Can you believe it?"

Somehow, Molly's heart both lifted and sank at the exact same time. To be invited to speak at University College was…well, it was amazing – something she never could have imagined, back when she'd been at Bart's. But to stay in London for nearly another week…

"I…I really can't," she finally managed to say, rubbing at her forehead as she felt the beginnings of another tension headache blooming behind her eyes. "Obviously, it's an amazing honor. I just…I really don't know what to say."

"Understandable! I was a bit speechless myself when she proposed it, and I'm not even the one who received the invite. But clearly, you're good with words, Hooper, so I'm sure you'll figure out something to say to Dr. Williams when you call her to accept."

She laughed at that – hoping the edge of panic was lost to the long-distance connection. "Oh, yes…I'm sure I will. You have her contact information?"

"Yep. I'll send it your way directly. I'll have my assistant handle the arrangements for your hotel and plane ticket first thing in the morning. As soon as she has it ironed out, I'll have her shoot you an email with your updated itinerary. Obviously, plan to expense your food and any work related costs when you get back."

"Right," Molly agreed, eyeing her small suitcase – she'd packed for a weekend, not a week. "I may need to pick up something to wear for Friday, if that's all right. I hadn't exactly planned for something like this."

"Like I said, Hooper – any work related costs. I trust you not to take advantage!"

"Of course! Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank _me_ ," Dean Jackson admonished. "Thank yourself. You did good, Doctor Hooper. At the risk of sounding old and patriarchal, I have to say, I'm proud of you."

The smile that stretched across her face then was thin, but real. "I'm rather proud of myself, to be honest."

"Good. You should be." He paused and she could hear what sounded like a hastily muffled yawn in the background. "Christ…I'm too old for late nights like this. Let me let you go, Hooper, before I fall asleep."

Molly laughed. "Of course, sir – get to bed. I'll email you once I've been in touch with Dr. Williams, and keep you updated on the situation."

"Perfect. Talk to you soon, Doctor."

"Yes. Goodbye."

Molly ended the call, staring down at her phone for a long moment before setting it back onto the bedside table. Then, she very carefully lifted her open suitcase, setting it down on the floor at the end of the bed. That done, she turned around, spread her arms and fell backwards onto the bed, enjoying the way she sank straight down into the memory foam mattress.

She stared up at the ceiling, torn between elation and gloominess as she contemplated the high-handedness of fate. All of her professional wishes were being answered…even as all of her personal ones were being systematically dismantled. It was as if fortune itself was warning her to temper her expectations.

 _Can't have it all, Molly Hooper_ , she could imagine it saying – taunting her. _Not after what you've done_.

Frowning now, she shut her eyes with a heavy sigh. Her phone dinged, alerting her to a new email. Dr. Williams' contact information, no doubt.

Staying where she was, Molly pretended she hadn't heard anything at all.

She would make the call in a bit. For now, she just needed a few more minutes to…

 _Knock, knock, knock._

Molly's eyes flew open and she planted her hands in the mattress, pushing herself upright, legs lying spread-eagle out in front of her. Who the hell…?

 _Knock, knock, knock._

"Molly? Are you in there?"

Huffing, her face crumpling into a pained grimace, Molly dropped herself back down onto the bed, glaring up at the textured whorls in the plaster over her head. " _Mary_ ," she ground out.

"I just heard the bed creak, so I _know_ you're in there, Molly Hooper. Now be a love and come open the door, yeah?"

Rolling off the bed with the most petulantly reluctant flounce she could manage, Molly stalked across the room and flung open the door, greeting the other woman with a scowl. "Why are you here, Mary?"

Smiling brilliantly, Mary Watson gave a quick shrug. "Why, to take you for coffee, of course," she said brightly, blue eyes sparkling. "Don't you remember? We made plans on Friday last."

"No," Molly denied, stepping back from the door just enough to cross her arms over her chest, "we really didn't."

"Well, _I_ made plans. It was just after His Nibs took his leave, so you might've been a bit distracted at the time. You did agree, though, so don't think I won't hold you to it."

Had she indeed? Molly couldn't remember – but all things considered, it was entirely possible that Mary was telling the truth. Of course, knowing Mrs. Watson as she did, she also knew that it was equally as possible that she was lying through her perfect, pearly teeth. Annoyed with herself for wavering – and at Mary for forcing the issue – Molly glanced down at her oversized sweatshirt and tattered old pyjama bottoms and then back up at her _supposedly_ expected guest. "Could we do it another day, Mary? I'm not dressed."

The older woman's eyes narrowed. "You're flying back to the States today and I _highly_ doubt you'll be planning a return trip any time soon. Doesn't really lend itself to a rain check, does it?"

"It does now that I've had a change in plans," Molly countered. "I'll be in London for the rest of the week."

Mary went still, a slow-growing and entirely too-smug smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "All week? That's terribly convenient, isn't it?"

Eyes narrowing in suspicion – she didn't at all like the look in Mary's eyes – Molly crossed her arms defensively. "I don't have any idea how to properly answer that," she snipped, "but as we've now established that I'll be here, how about we plan for lunch on Wednesday and give today a miss?"

"Not a chance," Mary laughed, apparently giving up on the niceties and pushing her way past Molly and into the hotel room. She went straight over to the long, low dresser, snatching up the dark washed skinny jeans and pink flowered t-shirt folded there. "Ah, look…your travelling clothes, I assume?" She turned, mile-wide grin still in place, and tossed the clothes in Molly's direction. "Get dressed. I'll wait."

Molly, hands full, opened her mouth to protest, caught the determined glint in Mary's eyes…and deflated. "Fine," she snapped, turning on her heel and stalking off toward the bathroom. "I'll be five minutes."

"No rush," Mary called after her. "I've waited three years for this conversation. A few more minutes won't hurt."

Closing the door on that last comment, Molly leaned back against it, waiting for the surge of anxiety that she fully expected to follow those words. When none came and instead all she felt was resignation, she blew out the breath she'd been holding and shook her head at herself in the mirror. "No point," she muttered as she dumped her clothes on the floor and began stripping off her pyjamas. "No point."

* * *

Half an hour later, she was seated across from Mary at a cozy corner table in a café just up the road from the hotel, fingers drawing circles round the lip of her coffee mug. She was looking everywhere but at Mary, who was staring at her with a look of such curious expectancy that it was making Molly's skin itch.

After another minute of silence, Molly huffed and finally met Mary's eyes across the plate of pastry that had been laid between them. "So go on then – _ask_."

Mary cocked her brow. "You know very well what I want to know. Why make me ask the question?"

"Because this is _your_ idea," Molly fired back, though without any particular heat. She reached out and picked up a croissant, giving her hands something to occupy themselves with. "All things considered, this subject has recently become as good as closed for me and I'd rather not discuss it at all."

"Why not?"

Molly tore the croissant in half. "Because there's no point. It's over and done with – now, more so than ever."

"Because of what happened on Friday night at the reception?" Mary shook her head. "You know Sherlock better than anyone. Surely you couldn't have expected anything but what you got?"

"I hadn't expected anything at all, considering I'd hoped very much to get through this trip without seeing any of you – and that _especially_ includes Sherlock." She looked down then, studying the two pieces of flaky bread in her hands. "But no, I wasn't surprised by his reaction then, any more than I was by what he did on Saturday, though I would have preferred not to have an audience for either."

A beat.

"What did he do on _Saturday_?"

Molly smiled sadly, dropping both halves of the croissant onto the small plate beside her coffee mug – the last thing she was, was _hungry_. "Nothing too terrible – just got a bit of his own back, though I'd rather not rehash the details. Suffice to say, I've met Dr. Musgrove and he seems a perfectly lovely young man."

Yet again, Mary filled in the blanks all on her own. "Oh, he is – quite bright too, which I'm sure Sherlock made abundantly clear, giant toddler that he is."

"Yes, well," Molly shrugged, her smile turning even sadder, "just this once, I can't honestly say that I blame him."

As it always did when something really intrigued her, Mary's head tipped to the side, her eyes raking over Molly's face. For a long moment, the two women stared at one another, the weight of three years of silence hanging heavy between them. Then, Mary's expression changed – softening in some ineffable way – and she leaned forward across the table, catching one of Molly's fidgeting hands in hers.

"Why did you leave, Molly? You were so happy – the _pair_ of you were _so_ happy – how could you run away from him like you did? How could you run away from _all_ of us like you did?"

Swallowing hard, Molly looked away out the window, eyes on the passing traffic. Aside from herself and Mycroft Holmes, no one knew why she'd left London as she had. For the first time, Molly realized just how badly she wanted someone else to know – how badly she wanted Mary, in particular, to know.

Once upon a time, she and Mary Watson had been on the cusp of a truly remarkable friendship, born out of a mutual regard for two truly extraordinary men and fortified in the fires of a battle they'd each walked willingly into because of them. When Molly had left London, it wasn't only Sherlock she'd left behind…and it wasn't only Sherlock that she'd hurt in doing so.

She couldn't turn back time…but she could at least attempt to fix _some_ of the damage she'd done…

She turned back to meet Mary's gaze. "Have you spoken to Mycroft lately?"

Mary's hand tightened on hers. "From time to time," she said tightly. "Have _you_ spoken to Mycroft lately?"

Bless, Mary Watson. She never disappointed. "Not lately. Not since I left London."

A short, sharp curse later and Mary had leaned even further forward, her hand tightening around Molly's. "What did he say to you?"

There was no point holding back now. "That Sherlock didn't love me the way I wanted him to," she said flatly, pulling the paraphrased words from the depths of her memory like splinters from an old, festering wound. "That he _couldn't_ love me the way I wanted him to. That what he felt was gratitude and nothing more. That the gratitude would only last for so long and then I would be nothing but an annoyance to him again." She stopped, attempted a smile. "I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture."

There was fire in Mary's eyes now and from the set of her jaw, Molly could tell that she was furious – the question was, with _who_?

"Mycroft Holmes," she said crisply, "is every bit as heartless and cold as Sherlock pretends to be, so I've no doubt he very much believed what he was saying. _You_ , on the other hand, are not." She pulled her hands away from Molly's, crossing her arms over her chest and pinning the younger woman with an icy glare. "How the _hell_ could you have believed any of that? Of _course_ Sherlock loved you. We all knew he did – me longer than most. He _told_ you that he loved you. How could you ever…"

"Because it made sense," Molly cut in, halting Mary's rant before it could really get started. For the first time in three years, Molly Hooper dropped the mask that she had worn for far too long, letting the full measure of her heartbreak show. "It made so much more sense than the alternative, Mary. Sherlock Holmes…in love with _me_?" She shook her head. "How could that _possibly_ be true?"

There was another long moment of silence then, with Mary studying her all over again. Molly let her look, hiding nothing, and slowly, she watched the cold drain away from those sharp, blue eyes. "Molly…"

"It was stupid, I know. Stupid and selfish and believe me, if I could do it over again, I'd have told Mycroft to piss off and gone straight back to Sherlock to discuss it with him. I certainly wouldn't have left like I did…or at all, really. Whether he really loved me or just liked me a whole hell of a lot, any Sherlock would be better than none at all. I know that for an absolute fact."

Mary leaned back toward her again, though she kept her hands folded neatly in front of her. "So you still love him then?"

Molly laughed, though there was little humor in the sound. "I couldn't stop if I tried – and trust me, I've tried. Not that it matters anymore. No matter how Sherlock felt about me then, he's made it very clear that he can't stand the sight of me now."

"You think he hates you?"

"I think…" Molly stopped, swallowing hard. She reached behind her and pulled her coat off the back of her chair. "I think it doesn't matter whether Sherlock hates me or not," she said at last, sliding her arm into first one sleeve and then the other. "Because the one thing I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that he hasn't forgiven me. Based on what I saw on Friday and Saturday, I doubt he ever will." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tenner, tossing it down on the table as she stood up. "This should cover my part of the bill."

Then she was gone, walking out of the café and out into the blustery winter day beyond, head lowered against the wind. She'd been stupid to think that telling Mary the truth could help at all. If anything, she felt even _worse_ for having told Mary the truth.

Halfway back to the hotel, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she dug it out, completely unsurprised to see that she had a text from Mary Watson, inviting her to dinner at she and John's home the following evening.

Molly tucked her phone away again without responding – without any intention of responding.

Ever.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thanks to all who read/reviewed/followed/favorited! Thanks, as always, to my beta, Xaraphis.

* * *

Tuesday dawned nearly identical to Monday – just as cold and just as gray, the threat of snow evident in the steel gray clouds hanging low over the rooftops of the city.

Bundled into her bright pink coat with a striped yellow scarf wrapped tightly round her neck, Molly pushed through the doors of University College Hospital and stepped out onto the soggy pavement. Taking a deep breath and enjoying the burn of the chilly air in her lungs, she started off down the sidewalk, slotting herself deftly into the foot traffic.

Her meeting with Dr. Williams – scheduled the day before when she had called to formally accept the invitation to speak at UCL – had gone well. Quick but cordial, Julia Williams had very efficiently covered the pertinent details of Friday's symposium without inviting extraneous chit-chat. The result, Molly suspected, of the never ending stream of emails and messages that kept the other woman's phone vibrating almost non-stop for the duration of their twenty minute meeting.

Far from being insulted, Molly had actually been quite flattered that the clearly busy Doctor had bothered to take the time to meet with her personally in the first place. So she'd shaken hands with a smile and wished the woman a good day before taking her leave.

Now, as she strolled along, taking in the uniquely _London_ atmosphere, it occurred to her that she had a whole day ahead of her with nothing in particular to do. Not liking the idea of having too much empty time on her hands when she was very determinedly _not_ thinking about… _things_ , she very quickly decided that heading straight back to the hotel would be a mistake. Stopping at a coffee shop near the hospital, she decided, as she was waiting for her café latte, to make a detour over to Oxford Street. This was, at least to a certain extent, a vacation – she might as well try to enjoy herself.

What better way to start that process than to indulge a little bit?

Two hours later, as she walked out of the Marks & Spencer near Orchard Street with several bags worth of retail therapy hanging from her gloved hands, she could honestly say that she felt better. More than that, she was even starting to feel optimistic about the rest of the trip, as well. Yes, the past few days had been awful…but today had been a good day.

There was no reason to imagine that the rest of the trip couldn't follow suit…

Even as that thought passed through her mind, a sleek, black car with darkly tinted windows rolled up to the curb just in front of her. She recognized the car, of course – had seen one just like it all too often in the past. For a long moment, she simply stared at it, feeling her good mood slipping further and further away with every second that ticked past. When the rear passenger side window slid down to reveal an all-too-familiar pair of cool, blue eyes peering out at her from within, she felt it evaporate entirely. Gritting her teeth and turning sharply away from the car – and more specifically, from the man inside of it – she fought to control the raw fury that had bubbled up inside of her.

Mycroft Holmes, as always, had bloody _impeccable_ timing.

"Miss Hooper…"

The sound of his voice, as bland and bored as ever, was merely fuel on the fire and Molly grit her teeth, squared her shoulders and walked away at a swift clip, determined to leave him and whatever inevitably horrible thing he had to say to her far behind. It wasn't until she reached Portman Square that she realized that she'd gone the wrong way – that her anger had carried her nearly to Baker Street. Coming to a sharp stop and earning herself an even sharper word from the woman who had been walking behind her, Molly stared straight ahead, her mind wandering down forbidden pathways once again.

From the moment she had stepped through the doors of Grosvenor House, she had made a conscious effort _not_ to think about the fact that she was staying virtually in Sherlock's back garden. But now, with barely a half mile between herself and 221b, it was suddenly all she could think about.

She had always loved the Baker Street flat, with all its various and sundry idiosyncrasies. It was so very _Sherlock_ , a fitting and comfortable backdrop for his chaotic genius. Once things had…had _changed_ between them, it had very swiftly become her favorite place in the entire world…

 _The flat was quiet, save for the crack and pop of the fire burning in the grate. In the kitchen, she sat on the table in nothing but a t-shirt, bare feet kicking back and forth above the floor, occasionally bumping against his where he sat beside her. She reached into the take away container perched on her lap to snag a cold samosa, turning slightly to offer it to him. He grinned down at her slyly, his blue dressing gown gaping open to reveal the pale expanse of his chest above his pyjama bottoms. Leaning forward, he bit down into the proffered treat, taking half of it with him when he pulled back, the playfulness of it all drawing a giggle from her. At the sound of it, his eyes lit up, expression softening into a look of such shy delight that it made her heart turn over in her chest…_

Molly closed her eyes, drowning once more in the vast ocean of her regret.

If only… _if only_ …

"Miss Hooper!"

She stiffened at the sound of _that_ voice yet again – though this time, she embraced the anger that came with it. Embraced it and didn't even begin to try and control it. Whipping around to find the same black car once again pulled right up to the curb beside her, she marched herself straight over to the lowered rear window, leaned down and met Mycroft's carefully contrived gaze dead on.

"Leave me alone, Mr. Holmes," she snapped.

"Miss Hooper…"

" _Doctor_."

"…get in the car," he huffed, sounding utterly put out.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes…I'd sooner drink bleach."

The elder Holmes huffed, rolling his eyes impatiently. "Yes, yes…you've found your spine. How delightful. Now, do stop being troublesome…"

"Piss off," she shot back crisply, riled by his condescension – he really was every bit as pompous as she remembered, unfortunately. Molly straightened back to her full height, adjusting her grip on her bags, gloved fingers curling into tight fists around the handles. "And _stop_ following me."

"Would that I could, my dear. But little as I like to admit, it is imperative that I speak with you – and there is no need to be crass."

"Crass? You think _that_ was crass?" Molly glared down at him, wishing it were possible to incinerate someone with a look. "Go _fuck_ yourself, Mycroft. How's _that_ for crass?"

The shift in his expression was minute but unmistakable – his lips pursed ever so slightly with utter distaste. "Yes, well, I see that the colonies have left their indelible mark," he drawled. "Now you've gotten that out of your system, _Doctor_ , please…get in the car."

"No." Molly's gaze hardened, though her lips curled up into a tense smile. "You see, I've already made that mistake once. Believe me, I won't be making it again. Now," she bobbed him an impertinent and astoundingly satisfying curtsy, "good day to you, Mr. Holmes."

With that, she turned back the way she had come and walked away with her head held high.

* * *

A few hours and several ignored texts later – Mycroft _and_ Mary; she had finally just turned her phone off altogether – Molly was down in one of the hotel restaurants, perched on a barstool and nursing a pint of Boddington's. Her _third_ pint of Boddington's, to be precise, though she was trying her best to lose count.

The anger she had been holding onto so fiercely since seeing Mycroft again had finally begun to fade. Or at least, the part of it that was directed toward _Mycroft_ had begun to fade – what remained was for herself alone, and _that_ was proving far harder to shake.

Because it wasn't actually Mycroft's fault, was it? He was, without question, the most officious git to ever breathe…but she had made her own choices, in the end. Any blame to be had lay at her own stupid, cowardly feet.

With that in mind, Molly lifted her pint and drained it dry.

"That's never a good idea, y'know."

Molly choked on the last gulp of beer, swallowing it down with a grimace as she thumped her glass back down on the bar. Cocking her head to look up at the man standing at her left shoulder, she regarded him flatly for a long, silent moment. Finally, she turned her head back around, catching the barman's eye and signaling for another. "If you mean the Boddington's, I beg to differ…"

The barstool beside her scraped against the floor as it was pulled backwards and then John Watson settled himself down onto its cushioned seat. "Eh, well…to each his own. More of a lager man, myself. Speaking of," he nodded at the barman, who'd just replaced Molly's empty glass with a full one, "pint of Carling, please." Then, he propped an elbow on the bar and leaned in toward her slightly. "But no, I didn't mean the Boddington's. I meant drinking alone – it's a bad idea, Molly."

"Par for the course then," Molly tossed back, glancing at him and then away again, lifting her glass. "The whole trip has been nothing but one very long, very bad idea. _This_ ," she raised it toward him, a mockery of a toast, "is supposed to help me forget that for a little while."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see John cock a brow at her. "And how's that going for you? _Forgetting_?"

"Not well." She took a healthy swig before shaking her head. "But then, it never has."

For several long moments, they fell silent, both of them silently contemplating their pints. Then, John lifted his glass, pausing just before it touched his lips. "I saw you, you know."

Molly, who had been picking at the napkin beneath her glass, frowned up at him, trying to ignore the appraising look he was giving her. "You saw me when?"

"Today," he clarified. "Near Portman Square." He dipped his head and caught her eye, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Honestly, Molly…I'm not sure I've ever seen Mycroft quite so lost for words. Well done there."

And just like that, it was like it had been, all those years before. Warmed now by more than just the alcohol, Molly let out a snort of laughter. "Yeah. I won't lie…it felt a bit good."

"I imagine it did." He paused for a sip, then aimed a smile her way – though his amusement had shifted into something a bit more bittersweet. "Mary told me everything, of course."

Molly shrugged negligently. "I assumed she would – and I'm glad she did. Saves me from having to do it."

"So it's the truth then – you regret leaving?"

Molly laughed again, only this time, there was no humor in it at all. "More than anything," she choked out, the words making her chest ache and her eyes burn. "And if I could fix it, I promise you, John…I would. But it's too late for that now. Far, far too late…"

This time, it was John's turn to bark out a laugh. "Too late? Who told you that? _Mycroft_?"

"No. I didn't give him a chance to say much of anything, really." Her shoulders dropped slightly, the memory of Saturday's calamitous meeting weighing heavy on her mind and heart. "Sherlock made it rather abundantly clear himself, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, I've heard about that bit too," John said sharply, "and from more than just Mary." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Bloody hell, this is a mess," he muttered, more to himself than to her, then reached out and grabbed her hand in his, giving her fingers a squeeze. "Molly, I want you to look at me and I want you to listen to what I'm about to say very, _very_ carefully."

Blinking at him slowly, the alcohol really beginning to catch up with her, Molly swallowed hard but did as he said, looking up at him expectantly. "Ok. Listening."

John leaned toward her, blue eyes as serious as she had ever seen them. "Sherlock Holmes…is an idiot."

Molly flinched backwards, frowning and confused. "No, he's not!"

"He really, really is," John disagreed, regarding her steadily. "He's a complete idiot and you shouldn't listen to a single, bloody word that he's said to you this week."

He looked so serious – so _knowing_. Her heart thudded hard in her chest, nearly overwhelmed by a sudden surge of the rawest hopeshe had ever felt. "John…"

Just that quickly, he pulled away, releasing her hand and turning to swiftly down the rest of his beer. "You're coming to dinner at ours," he said firmly after he'd set the glass back down, hand digging into his back pocket for his wallet. "Tomorrow night. Nothing big – just our way of saying 'welcome home', yeah?"

Thrown by his swift change and trying desperately to catch up – she really should have stopped at three – Molly shook her head. "John…I don't…"

"Nope. No arguing, Molly. Mary and I simply won't hear of it." He hopped down from his barstool, clapping a hand on her shoulder lightly. "Besides, we've already promised Emmy that you'll be there – and I know you wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you?"

That was extraordinarily unfair and they both knew it. It was also about the only thing that could possibly have gotten Molly to agree. John Watson could be every bit as devious as his wife when the mood took him…

Having been very efficiently backed into a corner, Molly huffed, turning back to her beer. "Fine. Tomorrow night. What time?"

"Seven o'clock," John said firmly to her back. "And Mary's already texted you the address."

"I'll be there."

"Make sure you are." John gave her shoulder one last squeeze. "Because if you aren't, we'll just come to you instead."

When Molly whipped her head around to shoot him a glare, John only grinned in return before walking away, looking far too proud of himself for her liking. She watched him until he disappeared out the door, then swung back around to her beer, still glaring as she lifted the glass yet again…

 _I meant drinking alone – it's a bad idea, Molly_.

"Oh…bollocks…" Molly thumped the glass back down, glaring even more fiercely now as she signaled for her tab; John Watson's warning – as well as everything else he'd said – echoing in her ears.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** So when I updated with chapter 5, FFN appears to have glitched slightly. It sent the email for followers, but it didn't show that the story had updated otherwise. So if you haven't read chapter 5, please jump back one! Other than that, a thanks, as always, to all who have read/reviewed/followed/faved.

And thank you to my beta, Xaraphis - you're awesome, baby sis!

* * *

This had been a mistake.

"So, Molly," Lestrade – bless him – asked with that warm little grin that had always put her at ease. He met her eyes across the table and gave her an encouraging nod. "Let's have it then. What've you been up to since you left?"

"Yes, Doctor Hooper, do tell us about your _new_ life in…" a pause, and then, "ah, yes. I quite forgot. You never _did_ mention where you had gone, did you?"

A very big, very painful mistake – just like she had known it would be.

The evening had started out promising enough. She'd arrived at the Watson's door promptly at 7, as requested, and had been surprised to find herself greeted by not only the family themselves – including lovely little Emily, with her sloppy plait of blonde hair and her inevitably sticky fingers – but also by Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford. They had each greeted her warmly and she had been insanely relieved to find that they were the _only_ other guests who had been invited to dinner.

Or rather, as she had heard John whisper to Lestrade when he thought she couldn't hear, the only other guests who had accepted the invitation.

Yes, it had stung to know that Sherlock's dislike extended quite that far, but honestly, she had just been thrilled at the prospect of an evening spent free of the awkward discomfort that she had been dreading all day long.

Of course, then Sherlock had come barreling in just as they were sitting down to dinner, seating himself with barely a word of greeting in the only free seat at the Watson's table – directly across from her.

Since then, he had been mostly silent, though when he had spoken, it had been primarily directed at her…and none of it had been even remotely kind. Apparently, he had decided that the flaying he'd given her on Saturday hadn't been enough and had come to finish the job.

Spec-bloody-tacular.

"Sherlock," Mary chided, sharp edges peeking out from beneath her friendly tone, "you know perfectly well that Molly lives in Baltimore now." She turned her head away from the detective, offering Molly – who was sat just beside her – an encouraging grin. "Right, Molly?"

"I work in Baltimore," Molly said tightly, her own smile thin. "I live in Ellicott City – it's one of several suburbs. It's quite lovely. I've a…a small townhouse there."

" _Filled_ with fat, overly pampered felines, no doubt," Sherlock drawled, cutting her a vicious smile as he drummed his long fingers against the pale green tablecloth. His plate sat in front of him, untouched – he wasn't even attempting to pretend that he had come to eat. "That is _de rigueur_ amongst the spinster set, is it not?"

Molly, jaw clenching, dropped her eyes to her plate, spearing a cooked carrot with slightly more force than necessary. "Just the one cat still," she said quietly, torn between sad acceptance and angry resentment – she knew that she had quite deservedly lost his good opinion; there was no need for him to belabor the point. "And Toby isn't fat."

"Still Toby, after all this time. How very steadfast of you, Molly." He picked up his fork, examining the tines closely. "Incredible, is it not, the level of devotion that four paws and a tail can inspire?"

She swallowed the bite of carrot, its flavor turned to ashes in her mouth.

"Eat something, Sherlock," John bit out before turning his attention to Molly. "You're working for Johns Hopkins, yeah, Molly? That's had to have been quite the experience."

Flashing him a grateful look, she gave a small nod. "It has been. My colleagues – for the most part – are top notch. Really, really brilliant people all around. And the facilities…I've never seen anything like them. Everything is top of the line and state of the art and as soon as it isn't, they replace it with whatever is." She turned to Mike Stamford, who sat on her other side. "You wouldn't know what to do with yourself, Mike. Honestly…it's like Christmas, every day."

"There but for the curse of tightly leashed budgetary constraints go I," Mike despaired good-humoredly. "If I'm ever in the States, Molly, I'll be sure to stop in – I'd love to see what you're getting yourself up to over there." He paused to take a sip of his wine. "I was sorry to have missed your presentation at the RCP last weekend. I hear it was brilliant!"

Molly felt her smile widen, tension eased by the kindness in Mike's eyes. "It was very well received," she demurred, pretending she didn't hear Sherlock's put upon huff from across the table.

"Now you're just being modest," Mary declared, getting up and fetching both the bottles of red and white from the sideboard. "It was _so_ well received," she said as she moved around the table, re-filling glasses as needed, "that she's been invited to speak at the University College Pathology Symposium on Friday."

Cheeks flushing with both pleasure and embarrassment – everyone was looking at her now and she still preferred _not_ to be the center of attention – Molly lifted her own glass for a top up of white. "It was luck," she said with a shrug. "The keynote speaker had to cancel and they needed someone to fill in."

"Oh, stop it," Lestrade insisted, around a hastily swallowed bite of herbed potato. "They could've asked anyone, but they picked you. That's not luck, Molly – that's you being brilliant."

"Mmm…but it's also just a _bit_ of luck, isn't it? After all, she owes both of those impressively illustrious speaking engagements to the misfortune of others – a bout of shingles and a lupus flare, respectively I believe…" Sherlock let the words trail off into nothing, insufferable in their patently false-friendliness.

"Neither of which is Molly's fault," Mary cut in, her voice gone chilly.

"I don't believe I said it was her _fault_ ," Sherlock said, flippant as he only ever was when he was at his most insufferable. "I am merely pointing out that if you are going to congratulate someone, it should be for something they themselves have done rather than for glory they've only inherited from someone else."

Molly's head jerked up – suddenly and entirely furious – to find that Sherlock was already looking at her. His mouth was stretched into the wide, fake smile that she knew only too well from the earlier years of their acquaintance; when she had been little more than a convenient tool to him. His eyes though – they were nothing like as empty as they had been all those years ago.

No, the eyes that looked at her now _burned_.

"The research that I presented at RCP is more _mine_ than it is anyone else's," she bit out, _refusing_ to back down on this. "The only reason I wasn't the one originally scheduled to attend is because I prefer the lab to a ballroom and microscopes to people. As for the UCL talk on Friday, I'll be the first to admit that proximity likely played at least _some_ part in being chosen to fill in, but there was an entire conference full of qualified candidates for them to choose from, wasn't there? It didn't have to be me."

"But it _was_ ," Sherlock snapped, his temper slipping through the cracks in his usually perfect façade of disinterest; the words sounding more like an accusation than an acknowledgment. "Spoiled for choice…and they picked _you_."

"That's _enough_ , Sherlock," John hissed.

Molly ignored him, glaring at the consulting detective, seeing nothing but the red of her own anger. "Yes, they did pick me. I'm terribly sorry if that bothers you."

"Bother _me_?" Sherlock barked out a laugh, shaking his head at her in condescending amusement. "One would imagine that it would bother _you_." A pause and those painfully blue eyes narrowed, his expression gone truly venomous. "But then, perhaps 'second best' must be considered a victory when one has spent their entire life languishing in the shadow of greater minds."

The room had gone quiet. Utterly and completely silent.

To Molly, it was as if everyone else had faded away, leaving only the two of them behind. She stared at him, unable to look away, her glare slipping into something more hurt than angry. "You _know_ that isn't…"

"I know that history would suggest that you possess a chronic tendency toward capriciousness, _Doctor_. For the sake of the organizers at UCL, I do hope that no one comes along with a better offer between now and Friday, else I fear they'll be on the hunt for an even more last minute replacement!"

At that, Sherlock shoved himself up to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over backwards. Without so much as a word to John or Mary – and certainly nothing for anyone else – he stalked away. A moment later, they all flinched at the sound of the front door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the windows in their casements.

Molly sat, unmoving, her eyes still focused on Sherlock's now empty chair and her heart lodged painfully in her throat. Beside her, Mike Stamford laid a tentative hand on her arm, attempting to lend comfort where he could.

"Pay him no mind, Molly. He doesn't honestly believe…"

"Please don't," she whispered raggedly, dropping her fork as she pulled her arms away. She dropped her hands into her lap, fingers knitting together so tightly that her knuckles shown white.

The next to move was Mary. She leaned forward, reaching for Molly's entwined fingers with fierce determination. "Molly…"

"Mummy?" Emily's tired little voice carried from upstairs. "Wuzzat bang?"

"Shit," Mary cursed roundly.

John pushed away from the table, tossing his napkin down sharply. "I'll get her," he said to Mary. "You stay and…"

"I need to go." The words burst out of Molly's mouth before she had even fully formed the thought to say them. Not looking at anyone – desperate not to see the awkward sympathy on any of their faces – she slipped out of her chair, neatly avoiding Mary's reaching fingers. "I'm…I'm sorry. Dinner was lovely, but I…I have to go."

Like Sherlock before her, she didn't look back. In the entry, she didn't even pause long enough to put her coat and scarf on, merely snatching them off their hook as she opened the front door, closing it behind her with a near silent snick.

Out on the street, Molly started off down the pavement toward the nearest tube station, attempting to jam her arms into the sleeves of her coat as she walked.

It, like everything else in her life at present, wasn't going terribly well.

Half tangled in her scarf and nearly blinded by the tears that she had been holding back for days – for _years_ – she sucked in several, sobbing breaths, lungs burning from the frigid night air. It was too much. All of it…just _too much_. Everything that she had kept locked up tight for so very, very long came surging up from deep inside, an eruption of suppressed emotion that blew through every wall she had erected and every door that she had shut, utterly and completely overwhelming her.

With a choked curse, she forced her left arm into its sleeve, taking the bulk of her scarf with it. Refusing to slow down – she didn't plan on stopping until she was locked safely away in her hotel room – she grabbed the loose end of her scarf and gave it a savage yank.

It came free all at once, surprising her and sending her stumbling forward off the edge of the curb she hadn't even realized was there. Her booted foot slapped down hard on the icy tarmac, sliding sharply out from under her and Molly gave a cry as she felt herself begin to fall.

From out of nowhere, a pair of arms caught her, pulling her backwards against the firm warmth of a much larger body. She reached up with the arm that wasn't safely tucked away in her coat, gloveless fingers catching hold of the coarse weave of the fabric that covered one of those arms. Once her feet were firmly underneath her once more, she let out the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding and unwound her grasping grip from her rescuers sleeve.

"Thank you," she murmured, as she struggled to right her coat once and for all, the words trembling slightly, from both the adrenaline dump and the chilly air. The trailing half of her coat was suddenly lifted, a black gloved hand wrapping around her arm and guiding it gently into the sleeve. Molly went still, eyes riveted to the sight of that black-clad hand as it slipped out of sight once more.

She knew that hand.

She closed her eyes, not bothering to wipe away the tears that were sliding down her cheeks.

 _Sherlock_.

"I do not claim to be an expert on American climatology," he snapped from behind her, even as those hands clasped the shoulders of her coat, settling it properly on her shoulder. "But I believe _Baltimore_ suffers from the throes of winter just as London does – you should not be this out of practice with the cold, Doctor Hooper."

"I'm not," Molly murmured, her shivering getting worse. She shoved her hands in her pocket, drawing out her gloves with shaky fingers. "I'm just…"

"…attempting to walk half a mile to the nearest tube station in sub-freezing temperatures without so much as your coat on properly. Yes, you appear to have this _well_ in hand…"

" _Please_ ," she nearly sobbed the word, dropping one of her gloves in the process. "Please, Sherlock…just… _stop_."

Behind her, he went silent, though she could still feel the warmth of him at her back. Ducking down, Molly collected her dropped glove with cold-stiff fingers, taking small, hitching breaths as she tried very hard to regain her composure. It wasn't working though, because she could barely see through the tears blurring her vision and she couldn't stop the tiny, strangled sob that clawed its way past her clenched teeth.

From behind her, she heard a sound like a sigh, though it was so quiet that she couldn't be sure she had even heard it at all. A moment later, one black-gloved hand curled around her arm, easing her around to face him. He said nothing, simply plucked her gloves from her hands before helping her into them with a strange – almost _reluctant_ – gentleness that she understood, even as it twisted her heart in her chest.

He was angry and he hadn't forgiven her…but he didn't hate her. At least, not enough to see her suffer and do nothing.

The silence stretched between them while he worked the gloves onto her hands and through it all, Molly wouldn't let herself look anywhere but straight ahead, teary gaze focused squarely on his chest, hidden away behind the buttoned up lapels of his Belstaff. He was so close – so much closer than she had ever dreamed he would be again – and she fought to quash the shock of longing that surged through her. She wanted to lean into him, to reach out and wrap her arms around him; to grab him and hold him, to beg his forgiveness and never, ever let him go.

She couldn't do any of that, though, having forfeited the right to touch him whenever she liked the day she had walked away from him. So instead, she continued to stare straight ahead, wishing that he would just stop – that he would simply walk away and leave her to be wretched and unhappy in peace.

But, to her misery, that's precisely what he didn't do.

Once her gloves were on – and still without a word – Sherlock reached out and clasped the two open halves of her coat, pulling them closed before slotting the zip and pulling it firmly upward. Molly could feel her lips begin to tremble, could feel the leash of her control begin to slip…but it was as he began to loop her scarf properly around her neck that she finally lost the internal battle and slid her eyes up to his face.

He wasn't looking at her, gaze focused on what he was doing. The street lamp overhead cast him in half-shadow, throwing the jagged planes of his face into even more dramatic relief. Her fingers itched to follow the sweep of his cheekbone; to trace the line of his jaw – to ease the clench of it, though she knew he would hardly welcome such a gesture. Instead, she curled her now-gloved hands into fists before slipping them into her pockets.

When he had finished, he stepped away from her, neither of them saying a word – the silence between them so heavy that Molly found it difficult to draw breath. He still wasn't looking at her and she took the opportunity to study him, to re-memorize all the things that time had begun to erase.

After a long moment, Sherlock stepped past her and she turned with him, watching as he lifted his right arm imperiously. As there had always been, there was magic in the movement, for almost as if he had summoned it from the nether, a cab pulled up to the curb beside them. Opening the rear door for her, he stepped back and motioned her inside.

Molly stared up at him, blinking against the tears that were swiftly freezing on her lashes – silently begging him to just _look at her_.

Finally, with a tiny, heartbroken sigh, she gave up. Stepping forward, she slid into the back seat. "Grosvenor House," she directed the waiting cabbie, exhausted and miserable. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said quietly, though loud enough that she knew he would hear.

He said nothing in reply; only swung the door shut before stepping back and away.

As the cab pulled away into traffic, Molly curled herself against the door, forehead pressed to the window and silent tears slipping down her cheeks as she watched London rush by on the other side of the glass.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thank you to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favorited! Thanks to Xaraphis, the bestest beta in the whole wide world.

* * *

It was past six when Molly walked into the morgue at Bart's on thursday evening, a visitor's badge clipped to her jumper and her coat folded neatly over her arm. Mike Stamford and Louis Musgrove both looked up when she walked in – matching looks of harried relief staring out at her from behind the clear lenses of lab goggles.

They were stood over a neatly dissected body, each wearing full protective gear – a necessity, in cases such as the one currently laid out on the slab.

"Molly!" Mike nearly shouted her name as he pulled off his gloves and binned them before rushing toward her. "Really, I can't thank you enough for this. All things considered, I know this is the very last thing you want to be doing right now, but we're utterly stumped, the pair of us and Sh…" he paused, coughed, "erm…NSY is breathing down our necks and I've never known anyone better at this sort of thing than you!"

Molly wasn't stupid. Nor was she so far removed from the life she'd lived in London that she couldn't recognize _Sherlock_ written all over this situation. This was his case, of course; she had no doubt about that. She also had no doubt that he was being a miserable git about the fact that they hadn't been able to identify the cause of death. On his best days, he found lengthy delays on their end frustrating…and she somehow doubted this was one of his better days.

At least, not if his mood was anything like as sour as hers had been all day…

"Yes, well," Molly offered Mike a half-hearted smile, "I only hope I can help." She nodded back toward the door she'd come through. "I'll just go get changed and scrubbed in – won't be a moment."

She ducked back out of the morgue before Mike could say anything else, stopping to snag a set of scrubs from the storage closet just down the hall.

Her first instinct, when she'd gotten Mike's call, had been to simply hang up on him and go back to enjoying the first wholly decent day she'd had since she'd arrived in London. But, in typical Molly Hooper fashion, she had suppressed the urge, heard him out…and eventually agreed to come in for a quick consult.

She had never liked the idea of a victim being deprived of the justice they deserved and she thoroughly enjoyed being part of the processes that saw the guilty receiving their due. For the sake of _that_ , she was willing to put up with the possibility of facing Sherlock again. In fact, she had more or less resigned herself to the fact that she would – in cases such as these, he rarely left the morgue for very long, preferring to be on the spot when and if something of interest was discovered.

Once upon a time, she had lived for those moments when Sherlock plowed through the door, his coat flapping dramatically and his eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase. She had lingered at his elbow in those days, trailing along behind him in an attempt to enjoy as much of his company as she possibly could before he was off again.

Now – particularly after last night – Molly just wanted to get in, get out and get it all over with.

Saturday evening and her red-eye flight back to Baltimore, frankly, could _not_ come soon enough.

She was nose to villi with a transection of the victim's small intestines when the inevitable happened.

His voice preceded him; the booming baritone raised in unmistakable annoyance carried through the door just before he banged through it, John Watson close on his heels. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see both Stamford and Musgrove jump, scrambling off the stools they'd been perched on as if they were about to be caught out by a particularly exacting superior.

Molly, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. She simply re-focused her keen gaze on the segment of tissue in her hand and carried on with her investigation.

"...they're _idiots_ , John! I refuse to pretend otherwise anymore."

"They're not idiots," John fired back, sounding equal parts exhausted and irritated, "you're just being a git, as usual. Seriously, Sherlock…how many times are we going to have to… _bloody_ hell," he snapped, "what'd you stop for?"

Molly did glance up then, guessing from the way John was rubbing his nose that he'd walked into his friend's back. Glancing up at Sherlock, noting only that he was, indeed, staring straight at her before shifting her gaze back to John. "That'll be my fault, I imagine," she said flatly, giving the shorter man a tiny nod of greeting. "Hello, John."

"Molly," John returned, eyes darting up to his friend quickly before he stepped around him and approached the table. "What…"

" _Why are you here?"_

Sherlock's voice, harsh and hard, cut across the room, silencing John and sending both Stamford and Musgrove back a step. Even Molly, accustomed as she was to both his temper and his derision, flinched slightly, though she recovered quick enough. Lifting her chin proudly – yes, she had done him wrong, but she was absolutely _done_ with cowering before him because of it – she met his gaze without hesitation for the first time in over three years. "They were stuck – I was available. If you have a problem with it, take it up with Mike. He's the one who called me in for a consult."

Sherlock took a step forward, his face blank but eyes stormy as he turned them on poor, put upon Mike Stamford. "And why, _precisely_ , would you have called _her_?"

"Seriously, Sherlock?" Stamford shook his head and gave a helpless shrug. "You _know_ why!"

"No, I'm afraid I _don't_."

"Yes, you bloody well do," Molly bit out, quite done with him for the present. "You can think what you like about me personally, Sherlock…but I won't allow you to dismiss me professionally. We both know that I'm extraordinarily good at my job, so why don't you shut up and let me _do it_."

He sputtered for a moment, but recovered quickly and took another step forward. "Be that as it may, _Doctor,_ the fact remains that for the past three years, Bart's has…"

"Has gotten on fine without me," Molly finished for him, dropping her eyes back to the intestine in her hand. "Yes, I remember, thank you – though it's lovely of you to remind me. Again."

Another step – she could see the toes of his shoes out of the corner of her eye. "This is _my_ case, Doctor Hooper," his voice was low; cold as it only ever was when he was about to verbally eviscerate someone, "and _I_ will decide who examines these remains. So I will thank you to leave. _Immediately_."

Molly lifted her head slowly, her own narrowed gaze meeting Sherlock's blazing one. From behind her, Louis Musgrove – bless him – stepped bravely into the fray.

"I think that would be a mistake, Mr. Holmes," the younger man said sharply. "We both know that Doctor Hooper's experience far outstrips mine. If you weren't being so deliberately obstinate…"

"Shut up, Musgrove," Sherlock snapped, his eyes never shifting from Molly's.

"Don't be a _dick_ , Sherlock," John snarled. "If you want this case solved, you know damn well there's no one better than Molly to do it."

"I _highly_ doubt…"

"It's potassium poisoning."

Molly's voice, high and clear, silenced the room. More particularly, it silenced Sherlock, who's mouth snapped shut mid-sentence. For several long moments, he simply stared at her – or _glared_ at her, more like. Then, he drew himself up, looking down at her with the coldly haughty disdain that she had always suspected he'd learned at his elder brother's knee.

"What?"

That tone paired with that _look_ – the combination so reminiscent of Mycroft Holmes that it set her back up – was the categorical _last straw_. Dropping the bit of intestine back into the examination pan, Molly tore off her gloves and chucked them hard into the bin beneath the table. "Your cause of death," she said fiercely, pulling off her goggles and the apron she wore in quick succession. "It's potassium poisoning – not surprised it was missed. Notoriously tricky to spot unless you really know what you're looking for."

She dropped the soiled gear into the appropriate hazmat bin for cleaning before turning back around to face the room at large, though her eyes went directly back to Sherlock's. "Good thing for you that I've seen it before."

"Potassium poisoning," Musgrove was repeating, already gloved up and looking at the cross-section of ileum that she had been examining. "What… _how_ can you tell that? I thought it was undetectable!"

"It is," Molly agreed. "A tox screen would have given you nothing. But as I said, I've seen it before." She walked back toward Musgrove then, finally tearing her gaze away from Sherlock's. "It's just there," she pointed, careful not to touch. "Do you see it? The mucosal necrosis?"

Musgrove leaned in closer, eyes narrowed behind his goggles. "Fuck me," he said after a moment, pulling back to look over at Molly, admiration in his gaze. "I would have never seen that."

"Yes, you would have," Molly disagreed. "Eventually. The only reason I noticed it as quickly as I did is because I went looking for it." She reached out and caught up the victim's medical records, thumbing through until she came to the charting that had been done upon his admission to A&E prior to his passing. "Did you see here? The flaccid paralysis paired with the paresthesia and the tachycardia? Pairing that with the intestinal paralysis I identified upon examination, hyperkalemia presented as the most logical answer. As soon as I saw the local mucosal necrosis, I knew I had it."

The younger pathologist shook his head. "That's…that's _brilliant_."

"It's _exactly_ why I called her in," Mike declared and Molly didn't need to be looking at him to know that he was glaring at Sherlock over her head.

Leaving them to gush, Molly stepped back again, turning once more to face Sherlock. He wasn't looking at her anymore. In fact, he appeared to be looking everywhere _but_ at her, his jaw clenched and his still-gloved hands curled into fists at his sides.

Sighing, Molly walked toward where he was standing, John at his side. "I'm very sorry that things have to be like this between us, Sherlock," she said softly – quiet enough that Stamford and Musgrove wouldn't be able to hear. "But all the same – and whether you like it or not – I'm glad to have been able to help again. I always did like to help."

Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he simply turned sharply away, stalking out of the morgue without a word to anyone and letting the door bang shut loudly behind him.

Molly watched him go, resigned and so unutterably sad that she could barely breathe through it.

"Molly…"

She pressed her lips together, and shook her head at John. "I'm going to get cleaned up," she rasped, the words barely making it past the lump in her throat. Without waiting for him to say anything, she moved past him and headed for the locker room.

John was waiting for her just outside the locker room, back propped against the wall of the corridor and arms crossed over his chest. Molly, lips pressed together tightly, hitched her bag up on her shoulder and gave him a nod. "Walk me out?"

"That was the plan, yeah," he said, his own smile strained.

They fell in step beside one another on their way down the corridor toward the lifts. Neither said anything the entire way up. It wasn't until they had stepped out the front doors and onto the pavement beyond that John turned to her, a determined look in his eyes.

"You shouldn't have left three years ago," he declared hotly.

Molly sighed, shoulders slumping – she was tired of hearing _that_ as well. "You really think I don't…"

"But I think it would be an even bigger mistake for you to leave now."

Her mouth snapped shut and her brows shot up. He had certainly caught her off guard with _that_ rather remarkable statement. "How can you possibly think that? As pleasant as I'm sure he's been this week…I should think that you, of all people, would be glad to see the back of me."

John stepped in toward her, pinning her with an utterly earnest look. "And you, of all people, know him well enough to know what it means that you being here affected him the way that it did. Don't pretend that you don't, Molly."

She looked away, sniffing from the cold. "The only thing I know, John, is that he hasn't forgiven me. That he will _never_ forgive me. I broke his trust and you and I _both_ know that there'll never be any mending it. Honestly? I'm not sure he'd know how to even if he wanted to."

"And what if that was exactly the problem?" He was urgent now, as if he could sense how close Molly was to walking away. "What if he wanted to mend things between you but had no idea how to even begin?"

"John…" her voice broke on his name and she looked away, swallowing hard. " _Don't._ "

She didn't want to hear things like that. Things like that gave rise to hope. And hope…

There was nothing crueler than _hope_.

"No, Molly, listen to me! I know he's been a total bastard, but it's Sherlock…of course he has! He doesn't know how to be anything else, particularly when he's hurting. And he _is_ hurting, Molly. You must have seen that."

"I can't do this, John."

John growled in frustration before reaching out and grabbing up her hands in his. "Yes, you _can_. You're one of the strongest women I have ever known and the only person I've ever seen put Sherlock-bloody-Holmes thoroughly and absolutely in his place." He stopped, sighed, his expression turning pained. "I'm sick of seeing my best friend miserable, Molly and seeing you again, well, I'm sorry, but you don't look much better. Please…for both your sakes…at least, _try_."

 _Would you…perhaps…let me try?_

Sherlock's words from so long ago swam up from the depths of her memory, joining with John's in a nightmarish carousel of guilt and fear and sadness. Shoving it all deep, deep down inside, she pulled her hands away from John's and straightened, looking him square in the eye. "It was good to see you again, John," she said, the words only barely trembling. "Please, give my love to Mary and Emily."

That done, she very coolly turned away and walked toward the curb to hail a cab, pretending all the while that she hadn't seen the disappointment in John's eyes.

Pretending even harder that she didn't feel it herself.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Big thanks, as always, to everyone who has read/reviewed/followed/favorited! And thanks to my beta, Xaraphis!

* * *

The symposium had gone well.

Very well.

The students had responded beautifully to the material, asking the sort of pertinent and well-considered questions that educators the world over dreamt of receiving. In fact, their enthusiasm had reminded her just how much she had enjoyed the teaching that she had done at Bart's.

Apparently, she'd been as impressive from the student's end of things – she'd been swamped with compliments and well-wishers once she had finished, with some of the students even begging her to glance over their research for them. To those students, she had presented her card and directed them to email her, any time.

It was as she was passing off one of those cards that Dr. Williams had found her, an appraising glint in her eye as she had asked Molly to have lunch with her and a few of her colleagues. Molly had agreed, of course, and had quickly discovered that the colleagues in question were, in fact, the Head of the Pathology Department as well as several other senior pathology faculty members.

By the end of lunch, Molly had been in possession of not only several very impressive business cards of her own…but also, of an even more impressive job offer.

Professor of Forensic Cytopathology.

The ultimate intersection of her very particular skillset; a position that had, quite literally, been tailor-made for _her_.

And there was only one thing that had prevented her from accepting it on the spot.

She glanced at her phone, sitting beside her open suitcase on the bed. It remained stubbornly silent – had done for the past hour while she packed. Nearly finished now, she grit her teeth and told herself to be patient.

Sherlock was notoriously awful about answering texts. That he would be even _more_ awful about answering this one in particular, she had little doubt.

 _We need to talk. Would you be agreeable?_

She had fired the text off while she rode the lift up to her floor, fingers trembling so much that she'd nearly dropped her phone twice in the process. It had been necessary, though. If she was going to move back to London, a conversation needed to take place.

A conversation that was three years overdue.

Her packing done, Molly zipped it closed and hauled it off the bed, setting it just outside the door to the loo. Behind her, her phone trilled, the sound muffled by the thick duvet.

Taking a deep breath, Molly turned back around, eyeing the lit up screen of her mobile nervously – staring at it until it went dark again. Martialing her courage, she padded across the room and scooped it up. She pressed her finger to the home button to unlock it, eyes riveted to the tiny red bubble sat in the corner of the messages icon.

With one last, deep breath, she tapped the icon.

 _Baker Street_

That was it. That was all it said…but it was enough.

Molly exhaled sharply, relieved that he had answered at all. Even more relieved that he hadn't said no.

Not giving herself time to think, she tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and crossed over to where her boots lay on the floor beside the wardrobe. Tugging them on, she took one quick glance at her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hair with nervous fingers. Then she was off, grabbing her coat and scarf on her way out the door.

* * *

Molly had never been more nervous in her life than she was as she stared up at the black door of 221B Baker Street, waiting for someone to answer her knock.

Listening as best she could through the hustle and bustle of London, she could just hear the hum of a voice approaching from the other side. A moment later, it was pulled open and the pleasantly familiar and slightly older face of Mrs. Hudson appeared in the gap.

A face that fell into a look of utter shock the moment the dear old lady recognized her.

"Heavens," she breathed, taking a step backwards and opening the door wider. "Molly Hooper…is it really you?"

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," she said, smiling as best she could under the circumstances. "How are you? Doing well, I hope?"

"Never mind _me_ ," she huffed, shuffling out of the way and motioning for Molly to come inside. "How are _you_? It's been an absolute age, hasn't it?"

There was just a hint of accusation in the question, and Molly's smile turned sheepish and more than a little pained as she stepped over the threshold. "It has – and I'm very sorry for that."

The old lady's eyes narrowed slightly, the look she aimed at Molly far more astute than she was generally given credit for – particularly by her upstairs tenant. After a moment, her eyes cleared and her smile softened. She leaned forward, placing a warm, wizened hand on Molly's wind-chilled cheek and giving it a gentle pat. "Of course you are, you darling girl." She glanced up the stairs. "I assume he's expecting you?"

Molly swallowed hard. "I…I believe so, yes."

"Hmm," she stepped back again, hands dropping to unloop Molly's scarf from around her neck. "I suppose that explains why it's gone so blessedly quiet up there." She turned and hung the scarf on an empty peg beside her own winter kit. "Best hurry on up, dear, before he remembers himself and starts sawing away on that violin of his again. I've not had a moments peace this past week together."

Slipping out of her coat, Molly passed it over into Mrs. Hudson's waiting hands. "I'm sorry about that," she murmured, her eyes sliding up the stairs to rest on the door standing firmly closed at the top. "I think that might be my doing."

"Seeing you certainly does explain it," Mrs. Hudson agreed. She hung the coat up over top of Molly's scarf. "I've not heard him play so often in several years – and I seem to recall you being the reason for it then, as well."

Molly took a deep breath, let it out. "Yes, well…I've come to apologize for that as well. If he'll let me."

"Only one way to find out, dear." A firm hand – surprisingly firm, for such an elderly lady – landed between Molly's shoulder blades, urging her forward. "Up you go, now."

Molly started up the stairs, never once looking away from the closed door of 221B; her mind already firmly focused on the man cloistered behind it. If Mrs. Hudson said anything else, she didn't hear it. By the time she had reached the landing, she could barely hear anything at all through the thumping of her heart in her ears. Lifting a trembling hand, she dropped three firm knocks on the wood.

A moment later, the door swung open with such force that it cracked into the wall behind it before bouncing back again. There was no one on the other side though, and Molly stepped forward to catch it with one flattened palm before it could slam shut in her face. Her heart dropped, though why she should be disappointed, she wasn't entirely sure.

It might not have been the welcome that she'd hoped for, but it was certainly the welcome she should have expected.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she steadied herself with a long, deep breath. Then, head high and shoulders squared, she walked into Sherlock's flat for the first time since she had bolted from it in tears three years previously, shutting the door behind her with a click that sounded like a thunderclap in the silence.

As with everything else about the man, it was virtually unchanged. A few more piles of books here, a few more discarded bits of paper there, but aside from that, it looked exactly as it always had. She took in the details swiftly, trying to ignore the memories that surged up and threatened to drown her in nostalgia.

Sherlock himself was stood before the fireplace, his back to her and his hands clasped together at the small of his back. He had arranged himself with care, deliberately angling himself so that she could see little of his face in the mirror that hung over the mantle. Unsurprised, Molly watched him silently from across the room, still managing to see the tension that he was trying so very hard to hide from her in the corded muscles of his neck and the twitch of his left thumb as it flicked against his right wrist.

It was at least heartening to know that he was as eaten up by nerves over this meeting as she was.

Molly chewed at her lower lip, casting about for something to say and coming up frustratingly blank. Finally, she settled on something smaller; something safely mundane to get the conversation rolling.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," she said at last, forcing herself to step further into the room. "I know you…"

"I would prefer to dispense with any attempts at _small talk_ , Doctor Hooper," Sherlock said over her, though his voice lacked the venom that his words suggested.

Closing her eyes briefly, Molly nodded her head. "Right," she said softly. "Yes…sorry. I'm sure you're quite busy – a case, no doubt."

"Doctor Hooper, please," the words were ragged this time, low and fierce and so much more telling than he probably meant for them to be. "Just say what you came to say and then leave… _again_."

Molly's eyes blinked open, an entirely unwanted spike of hope piercing her heart. For the first time since she'd returned to London, there had been something more than anger in his voice. If she could get past that anger all together, she might yet be able to reach him.

Staring hard at his back now, her feet moved forward across the floor almost without her telling them to – irresistibly drawn to him, as she had been from the very first moment she had laid eyes on him. She stopped on the far side of John's old chair, eyes skipping between his face and his reflection, the sharp lines of his profile revealed in greater detail with her change in perspective.

Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to say.

"The last time we both stood in this room, you asked me for an explanation that I was too much of a coward to give you then. If you're at all interested in hearing it, I would very much like to give it to you now."

He went still, his hands curling about one another so tightly behind his back that his knuckles shone white. She could see the struggle in him, reading his conflicting emotions in the jump of his Adam's apple and the extraordinarily quick flick of his eyes toward her and then away again. Part of him clearly wanted none of it, while another part of him appeared almost eager to hear what she had to say.

The question of which part would win out was answered when he stepped closer to the fireplace, one long fingered hand moving from behind his back to poke at the skull that sat on the mantle. "I'm listening," he said at last, tracing the line of the sagittal suture.

Molly's own hands, just as nervously occupied, picked at a catch in the fabric along the back of John's chair. She couldn't see his face anymore – he had stepped in too close to the mirror, broad shoulders blocking her view. "The most important thing that I need you to know is that you…you did _nothing_ wrong. Nothing at all. In fact, it was just the opposite – you were…you were everything that I had ever dreamt of and so much more that I had never even imagined."

She was crying softly now, long suppressed pain giving way to the slow, steady drip of tears down her burning cheeks. The world had narrowed in that peculiar way that it always seemed to do until he was all that she could see. His proud shoulders – so much stronger than _he_ gave himself credit for – had slouched at her words and his head lowered.

"You'll forgive me if I find that difficult to believe," he said after a moment, his voice flat. He laid his hand flat atop the skull, palm on the frontal bone and long fingers curving back over the parietal, lifting it and turning it over to examine the occipital condyle. "After all, you left, didn't you? That hardly suggests a woman who was _happy_ with her situation."

"I was scared," she admitted, her own voice hushed now. "Scared and stupid. I didn't…something happened and it made me think…made me question…" she stopped, licked her lips. "I'd worried from the beginning, you see – worried that I was misreading your intentions. Worried that you were offering yourself to me for the wrong reasons. After all, you'd been so…so _adamant_ for so long…"

The skull thumped back down onto the mantle sharply and finally – _finally_ – Sherlock spun around to face her, the fire in his eyes taking her breath away. "You didn't believe me," he said in a rush, the words low and choked. "You didn't believe me when I told you that I loved you – that's what you're trying so very hard _not_ to say, isn't it?"

The pain – the raw, aching _hurt_ – that she could hear in his voice and see in his eyes, gutted her. Flayed her open wide, just as it had all those years ago…only it was worse this time.

So much _worse_.

A sob burst from between Molly's lips and she lowered her head, unable to look at him out of sheer guilt. "I didn't believe you," she agreed, the words tremulous and brittle. "I tried – I tried so _hard_. But I couldn't…it just didn't make _sense_. You're so…you're _brilliant_ and beautiful and I'm…I'm just… _me_. You'd…you'd ignored me for _years_ and it…when he said it was an obligation – because of how I'd helped – _that_ made perfect sense…"

"An obligation?" Sherlock had moved without her realizing it – he was now standing on the direct opposite side of John's chair. She forced herself to look up at him, wincing to see the horror now shining out of his eyes. "You thought…" he paused, eyes narrowing, and suddenly drew back. "You said _he_."

Molly frowned, drawing a hand across her face to brush away the tears that were blinding her. "What?"

" _When_ he _said it was an obligation_ ," Sherlock repeated, parroting her words of only moments ago back at her. "Who told you that you were nothing but an obligation to me?"

It was a command and Molly very nearly complied, stopping herself with Mycroft's name on the very tip of her tongue. She had promised herself that she wouldn't bring him into this – the decisions she had made were hers alone and she refused to pretend differently. "That...it doesn't matter, Sherlock. _I'm_ the one who believed it so easily. _I'm_ the one who ran away. _I'm_ the one who owes you an apology."

"You think I want an _apology_ from you?" There was the horror again, paired with a bitterness so sharp that it made Molly wince.

"I don't think you want anything from me at all," she responded, her voice breaking. "But I think I owe you one all the same. You trusted me – you put your faith in me – and I betrayed you in the worst way I possibly could have. I _loved_ you, Sherlock…" she stopped, another sob clawing its way out of her throat. "I loved you _so_ much…"

" _Stop_." Sherlock turned away from her, one hand going up to tug at his hair, mussing his already messy head of curls even further.

But she couldn't listen to him. She couldn't stop…not now that she'd started.

"…and I couldn't stand the idea that you might resent me one day…"

" _Enough_ , Molly!"

It was her name that did it; the sound of her name on his tongue shut her up where nothing else could have. The reaction appeared to be oddly mutual – Sherlock, chest rising and falling with quick, short breaths, appeared just as stunned to have said it as she was to have heard it.

For a long, suspended moment, they stared at one another across the scant few feet that separated them, the air between them heavy with restrained emotion. Sherlock was the first to move – he side-stepped the chair, coming to stand just in front of her; his eyes full of shadows as they gazed down into hers.

Time stopped – Molly's breath hitched in her chest. She took a small step toward him, drawn in to his warmth, her face tipping up toward him; her eyes never strayed from his, trying to show him what she _still_ lacked the courage to say. His own breath caught, the slight gasp of it parting his perfect lips and Molly's gaze shifted down to them. Teeth running over her bottom lip, Molly lifted her face even further toward his. He hissed at that, his head lowering even as his hand came up, the tips of his fingers brushing a single, scalding caress down the side of her neck. Eyes sliding shut at the contact, Molly's mouth fell open as she was caught and held by a flash of memory so vivid that it nearly bent her in half…

' _Have I ever told you,' he whispered against the fevered skin of her throat, clever mouth finding the pulse point just beneath her jaw, 'that I have a peculiar sort of synesthesia? I_ _ **see**_ _music – in places, around people. Dancing notes. Cresting crescendos. Falling denouements.' He swept his hand down her side, calloused fingers leaving goosepimples in their wake and wringing a gasp from her throat. He licked across her collarbone, humming his approval into the crook of her neck. 'I am surrounded, day in and day out by scherzos and sonatas. By minuets and requiems and concertos. And you…you are a_ _ **symphony**_ _to me…'_

When the memory faded, Molly forced her eyes open, looking up at him even as he looked back at her. His eyes were a maelstrom; a raging storm of fury and fear and hurt and – _Oh God_ – longing. The hope came clawing back, tearing its way into her heart once more; she reached out toward him before she could talk herself out of it, following pure instinct as she laid her fingers against his cheek.

"I'm so sorry that I left you," she whispered, eyes filling with tears yet again; her regret so thick that she could have drowned in it. "I'm so…I'm so _sorry_ that I wasn't brave enough…that I wasn't _strong_ enough…"

Sherlock's hand shot up, fingers wrapping around her wrist even as his expression hardened…darkened. He pulled her hand away from his face, setting it back at her side. He was clenching his jaw again and all of that beautiful _feeling_ had been wiped clean from his face once more.

"I have to go," he declared a moment later – the anger back in his voice, only different this time. Darker, somehow.

As quickly as it had come, hope fled. She had been right – he hadn't forgiven her. More importantly, he didn't _want_ to forgive her. "Yes, of course," she said quietly, stepping back and dropping her head, the hand that had touched him curling into a fist at her side. "I'm…thank you for taking the…"

Sherlock brushed past her without waiting for her to finish, stalking straight for the door. He threw it open with a crash and slammed it viciously behind him; leaving her staring after him with a heart even more broken than it had been before.

Twenty minutes – and a tear-filled break down – later, Molly trudged back down the stairs, collected her things, and slipped out the front door of 221B Baker Street…for what she knew now would be the last time.

She wouldn't be moving back to London.

Not now.

Not ever.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** To all who have legitimately read the story and reviewed it honestly and fairly, I thank you very much. This chapter marks the end of this little fic. I hope everyone has enjoyed it! To those interested, it is available on AO3 as well.

Once more, thank you to my beta, Xaraphis!

* * *

By ten o'clock the next morning, Molly was dressed, packed, and on her way to the airport – not caring in the slightest that her flight didn't leave until just before midnight.

She hadn't slept well.

Or at all, actually.

It was fine, though – she'd sleep on the flight home. Might was well put the first class accommodations to their full use. Particularly since she didn't plan to make this flight _ever_ again.

After an unsuccessful attempt to get herself switched to an earlier flight, Molly had checked her bags, made her way through security and settled herself into one of the airport restaurants to grab a bite to eat.

Over a lunch of chicken Caesar salad, she had composed an e-mail on her mobile, formally declining the UCL position…but she hadn't sent it. Her finger had hovered over 'send' for several minutes, but in the end, she had saved it to her drafts folder, telling herself firmly that she would send it as soon as her plane touched down in Baltimore.

She understood her hesitation; knew it for precisely what it was. This position…it was the dream job that she had never dared to imagine she might get…and she'd already laid too many of her dreams to rest on this trip. She couldn't bring herself to add this one to the funeral pyre.

Tucking her phone away, she had finished her lunch, choking it down, though it tasted like cardboard. Once it was done and paid for, she had collected her carry on and trudged her way through the terminal and into the British Airways first class lounge. It was a large, open and sleekly beautiful space; all modern touches and plush seating and Molly had made herself comfortable on one of the deep sofas tucked away towards the back of the room.

For a while, she simply sat there, watching the life going on around her and trying – as she had from the moment she had walked out of the Baker Street flat the night before – _not_ to think about anything even remotely Sherlock-related. Unsurprisingly, she was failing miserably at the attempt, her brain insisting on dragging out the memory of their exchange and replaying it, searching every nook and cranny of it for _something_ that might lessen the sting of what had very much appeared to be his complete and utter dismissal.

After the third time she'd had to scold herself for thinking too much, she hauled her Kindle out from her carry on, trying to distract herself by the most convenient method at hand.

When that hadn't worked either, she had shoved it back away and collapsed backwards into the cushions; closing her eyes and wishing that time would just speed up so that she could put every, single thing about London well and truly behind her, once and for all.

By two o'clock, her sleepless night had caught up with her and she had drifted off into much needed slumber. When an airline employee, bearing a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits, woke her just after four, Molly had blinked up at her, surprised that she had managed to sleep so well for so long in such a public setting.

"I'm so sorry," Molly croaked, voice rough from sleep. She swung her legs, which she had tucked up beside her, around and dropped her feet to the floor, scrubbing at her eyes viciously. "I didn't mean to fall asleep!"

"Oh, don't worry about that, M'am," the pretty young woman with a bright, unburdened smile said pleasantly, placing the cup into Molly's hands and the plate down onto the low coffee table that sat in front of the sofa. "If you don't mind my saying, you looked like you needed the nap."

Cradling the coffee between her palms, Molly gave a bark of laughter. "I need more than a nap," she said tightly, taking a slurping sip of the hot coffee and trying not to grimace – nowhere _near_ enough cream. "Thank you for this," she said anyway, lifting the cup slightly in acknowledgement. "It was kind of you to bring it."

The young woman – Carrie, Molly read off her name badge – waved away the thanks. "It was my pleasure, m'am – think nothing of it."

Molly took another sip, surprised when Carrie just continued to stand there, hands folded in front of her while she chewed at her lower lip thoughtfully.

Trying to ignore it and hoping the other woman would just go away, Molly took another sip of her coffee. Then another…and then another…and then finally, beginning to get annoyed, she glanced up again, brows lifted questioningly. "Was there something you needed?"

Carrie shifted uncomfortably, clearly torn about _something_. "Oh, it's nothing, ma'am," she dismissed, though her tone suggested decidedly otherwise. "It's just…your mobile rang, while you were sleeping. Several times, actually."

"Did it?" Molly frowned, shifting around to look for the device in question while trying not to spill her coffee.

"Oh, it's over here, Ma'am," Carried pointed down at the small table perched beside the sofa. "I didn't mean to pry, I promise. I didn't want to wake you, but I was concerned that it might be important and…" she stopped, biting at her lip nervously. "Well…I couldn't help but notice…"

Molly reached out and picked up her phone, glancing up at the girl and giving her a curious look. "You couldn't help but notice _what_?"

"Do you _really_ know Sherlock Holmes, Ma'am?"

Molly flinched backwards, staring up at Carrie miserably – could she _never_ get away from him? "I'm sorry…do I really _what?_ "

"I know I'm being horribly nosy, but I've always found him to be such a fascinating character and I just…that was the name that kept popping up on your caller ID, you see – _Sherlock_. I can't imagine there'd be more than _one_ Sherlock, so…"

She kept talking – Molly ignored her entirely, brain ceasing on the fact that Sherlock had _called_ her.

Sherlock never _called_ anyone unless he absolutely had to.

Why the hell would he have called _her_?

Having set her coffee aside, she unlocked her phone and her heart leapt into her throat at the notifications that awaited her there.

Nine texts. Seven missed calls. Two voicemails.

All from the same number. All from Sherlock.

Going straight for the voicemails – the first one left just over an hour ago and the second one thirty minutes past – she smacked the phone against her ear. As she waited for the message to begin, she brought her other hand up to her mouth, chewing anxiously on the side of her thumb…terrified to let herself hope, but unable to stop her traitorous heart from trying.

Sherlock never called…and he never, _ever_ left voicemails.

And he had left her not one, but _two_ …

When the message finally began, she clapped her hand over her mouth; trembling fingers pressing hard against lips that had parted in utter shock.

" _You've checked out of your hotel,"_ he snapped to begin the first message, though the words were more desperate than angry, the sounds around him and the cadence of his breath suggesting that he had been walking as he talked, " _and you haven't returned or even read a single one of my texts. If your evasion has anything to do with the abruptness of my departure yesterday evening, allow me to apologize at once – it occurred to me only_ after _I laid my officious, interfering git of a brother out flat that, I'd failed to ask you to stay. Despite appearances, I was_ not _,_ _in fact, finished with our conversation, though I'm sure, to you, it must have appeared that I was. If you'd…if you would please allow me the opportunity to speak to you again before your flight this evening, I'd very much appreciate it, Molly. Give me a time and a place and I'll be there."_

The message ended and Molly pulled the phone away from her ear, staring down at the screen wide-eyed, her chest tight with nervous energy. _Mycroft_. He had left as he had yesterday to confront Mycroft – apparently violently – and all because of one overwrought slip of her tongue. She wouldn't have been Molly Hooper if she hadn't felt at least a little bit bad about that…but she couldn't deny that there was a small, truly awful part of her that was deeply satisfied to hear it.

Despite herself, hope began to trickle back in and she bit her lip, staring now at the second and most recent message from Sherlock, perched with such mysterious possibility at the very top of her screen. Holding her breath, she tapped the message and brought the phone back to her ear.

" _I've been a bastard this week,"_ the words came across the recording in a rush, Sherlock's voice low and desperate, _"and I am sorry for it. Molly…you're brilliant. So much more brilliant than nearly everyone else and I should never have suggested otherwise. Seeing you…watching you work, I finally realized…_ " He stopped again; took a short, sharp breath. " _I've been so…so determined to blame you for leaving that I never once…"_

A sigh – she could almost picture him, one gloved hand running restlessly through his hair.

" _We both own our share of the blame,"_ he admitted quietly and it was one of the most stunning things she had ever heard him say – at some point over the past three years, Sherlock Holmes had grown up. _"You shouldn't have left. But I…I should have done more to make you stay. I should have…"_

There was a pause then; a hitch in his breath that stole hers entirely.

" _If you would…if I may…I should very much like to try again,"_ he said, sounding so much like he had three years ago that Molly's heart turned a complete somersault in her chest. " _Please, Molly…let me show you what I failed to three years ago – let me convince you to stay."_

The message cut off after that and Molly sat, frozen, with the phone still held to her ear. Above her, Carrie was _still_ talking but all that Molly could hear was Sherlock's voice, the last line of his message playing on repeat through her mind.

 _He wanted her to stay._

He wanted to _convince_ her to stay.

To do that, he needed to find her first – and Molly desperately wanted to be found.

Leaping up from the sofa, she turned to Carrie, who had given a surprised squeak at the suddenness of Molly's movement. "He wants me to _stay_ ," she announced loudly – perhaps a bit madly – before spinning around and starting toward the exit, leaving everything behind her except for the phone that she still held clutched tight in her hand.

She ran past a lovely young couple entering the lounge just as she was attempting to exit it, nearly knocking them over in her enthusiasm. She apologized profusely, grinning like an idiot all the while, and then hurried on her way again.

Shoving through the main door, she skidded to an awkward, stumbling stop before she'd gotten more than ten feet away from it.

Just ahead of her, unmistakable in his Belstaff, stood Sherlock Holmes.

He was standing at the airline information counter, clearly at odds with the unsmiling agent behind the desk. Molly's smile widened even as her heart climbed up into her throat. After taking in and letting out a slow, deep breath, she moved toward him; ears picking up his sharp-tongued efforts to glean the information that had so far been denied him.

Not trusting her voice – she was hovering dangerously close to tears again, though for an entirely different reason for once – Molly fumbled with her phone, finally managing to open up the string of text messages that he had sent and which she hadn't responded to. Not bothering to read them – she would save that for later – Molly tapped out a short note and hit send.

 _So…convince me then._

It was beyond gratifying to see the great Sherlock Holmes fall all over himself when his mobile vibrated with her message. He spun sideways, showing her his profile, the agent immediately fading from his notice as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He dropped it in his haste, cursing sharply as he jerked forward to catch it, shifting it around so that he could see the screen. She watched him read what she had sent…saw the way his dark brow drew down in an unhappy frown even as his fingers began flying over the keys.

Molly's phone pinged.

 _Perhaps the intent of my message was lost but my hope had been to convince you face to face. I've been given to understand it is the proper way to do the thing._

It pinged again.

 _I'm rather tired of being at cross-purposes with you, Molly. It would be terribly convenient if you would simply agree and stop being difficult._

Again.

 _Not that I think you are being difficult. At least, not deliberately._

Again.

 _Please, Molly…where are you?_

She couldn't help it – she laughed. It was so very Sherlock, so utterly _him_ that it made her heart soar. He was impossible and he was rude…and _God_ , she had missed him.

Molly tapped out her answer. Sent it.

 _You've lost your touch. Time was, you'd have charmed your way past that agent in no time flat._

She watched him read the text – watched his head jerk upwards. Holding her breath as he turned a slow circle, keen eyes searching every face until finally – _finally_ – they found hers.

Like the day before, they stared at one another across the distance – the _years_ – that separated them. Unlike the day before, there was no more anger in either of them…no more fear. Just a mutual longing that drew them toward one another and let the world around them fade into a blur.

They stopped only inches apart, Sherlock staring down at her with all the intensity that he was so uniquely capable of. It was a look she knew; a look she had seen only a handful of times in reality, though it had repeated itself hundreds of times in her dreams. He was looking at her as if he adored her, and for the first time, Molly met that look with not only hope…but faith as well.

How could she have questioned it? How could she have questioned _him_?

"Go on then," she said after nearly a minute had gone by and Sherlock had said nothing.

He blinked, frowned. "Go on what?"

She tried to hide her smile, failing miserably. "Go on and ask me. If I need to re-schedule my flight, I'd like to do it soon."

Sherlock's face blanked, every ounce of emotion draining out of him. "You intend to go then?"

Cursing herself – really, she was as bad at this as he was – Molly leapt toward him, catching his hand in hers and holding tight. Now that it looked very much like she had him, there was no way in _hell_ she was going to let him slip away again. "No!" She shouted the word at him, pulling him to her. "I mean, _yes_ , but not in the way you're thinking. My entire life is in Maryland, Sherlock – all my things, my _cat_. I have to go back, at least for a little while."

Just that quickly, the emotion came rushing back, along with a relief that made her heart soar. "Yes, of course," he said, sounding faintly embarrassed. Hurrying to cover his overreaction, he turned his hand beneath hers, linking their fingers together. He stared down at their joined hands, swallowing hard when she swept her thumb over his in a soft caress. "I could…I could go with you, if you'd like," he offered tentatively. "I could help with your packing."

Molly laughed – a loud, joyous thing that sparked an answering grin on his own face. "I can't imagine the disaster that would be…" she stopped, bit her lip, "…but I would very much like to find out."

His grin sharpened, eyes almost glowing with pleasure. "Excellent." He turned on his heel, attempting to pull her along behind him. "I've already purchased a ticket on an earlier flight. Let's see if we can get you on it as well, shall we?"

Digging in her heels, Molly tightened her grip on his hand, yanking him back toward her. "Wait!"

Sherlock stopped, turned back around, frowning slightly. "What?"

Before she could talk herself out of it, Molly pressed up onto her tiptoes, catching the back of his neck at same time and drawing him down to her. She brushed her lips softly against his – a delicate, fleeting touch that nevertheless managed to set her blood on fire. Sherlock had gone still, though she knew that he was far from unaffected by the unexpected embrace; she could feel the leap of his pulse against her thumb where it rested just beneath the exquisite line of his jaw.

Not attempting to deepen the kiss, Molly simply let her lips rest against his for a long, blissful moment. Then she pulled back, but only far enough that she could see his face – look into his eyes.

They were hidden from her though; shut tight, lashes dark against his pale skin. Molly smiled softly at the sight, her love for him rising up to wash over her in warm, lapping waves. Trailing her hand around to his face, she brushed a finger across the perfect curve of his lower lip.

"I love you."

His voice was low, fierce – determined. Molly's hand jerked back; her eyes leaping up to his. He had opened his eyes while she had been distracted, taking her in with the same hunger that she knew he could see in her. It was the second time he had ever said those words to her…

She swore to herself that this time, it would be a good deal less than three years before she heard it again.

"I love you too."

 _He_ kissed _her_ then, and there was nothing at all delicate or fleeting about it. His lips devoured hers even as his arms slipped around her back to press her close against him. Molly fell into him, her own arms coming up to wrap around his neck, kissing him back with three years' worth of longing.

Finally, they pulled apart once more, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock kept his arms locked around her, dropping his head to press his cheek to her temple, placing his lips close to her ear.

"Stay with me, Molly?" He whispered the words, his breath warm against her skin.

Molly burrowed into him, wrapping herself entirely within the circle of his warmth – and his love. "Yes," she whispered back.

She could feel him swallow, felt his embrace tighten. "You're certain?"

"I'm not just certain," she assured, leaning back to meet his eyes, lifting one hand to brush the curls back from his brow before pressing her palm against his cheek. "I'm decided – and I'll never let anything convince me otherwise _ever_ again."

* * *

 _Two Months Later_

Molly sat in the corner of the sofa, her feet tucked up beside her and a book in her hand. With her other hand, she absently stroked Sherlock's hair, occasionally twirling a curl around her index finger before letting it spring free.

Sherlock was lying across the length of the old, leather sofa – bare feet hanging over the opposite arm and his head pillowed on her lap. He stared up at the ceiling, his hands pressed together and his fingers steepled where they rested lightly against his lips.

Across the room, a fire cracked and popped in the hearth. Toby, curled into a ball of feline contentment, lay before it, occasionally popping his head up to give his fur a lazy lick.

On the desk – which was clean, for once – sat an open laptop; a half-finished course syllabus gleaming on the screen. Molly's work bag was slung over the chair, the strap resting on top of one of Sherlock's suit coats.

Molly pulled her hand away from Sherlock's hair to turn a page, grinning when he made a noise of complaint low in his throat at the loss of contact. Grinning even more at the contented hum he gave when she slid her fingers back into his curls and resumed her absent caresses.

It was simple.

It was ordinary.

And it was _everything_.


End file.
